False Identity
by I'mDatingTheReceptionist
Summary: John's stopped seeing Sherlock. Finally. He thinks he can for sure move on with his life...but when he finds out Molly has a new boyfriend - a very tall, and very familiar surgeon, who claims his name is Stephen - he begins to doubt himself and finds he's right back at square one. Maybe he's going mad. Maybe not. He won't know unless he does something about it. JxS.
1. Chapter 1

John's stopped seeing Sherlock.

Finally.

To be more precise, it's been exactly 7 months, 3 weeks, 1 day, 15 hours, 9 minutes and 4 - no, wait - 5 seconds since John's even caught a glimpse of the Belstaff. Well, not the one tucked away in Johns closet anyway. He'd been given it, along with Sherlocks scarf, after the incident with no questions asked. The blood had been washed from both, but Sherlocks ever present smell still lingered in the fibres and it was something that made Johns heart squeeze everytime he'd moved to pick them up to hold them close at night.

It had taken a long while before John had been able to let go and stand on solid ground again. The coat had been a difficult departure (hiding it away behind a bunch of tacky christmas gifts seemed the best place to stow it where sympathetic glances wouldn't find their way in) but he hadn't said the same for the scarf. As well as using it as a comfort item at night all these months, he'd gradually begun to wear it around his neck everywhere he went, tied the same way Sherlock had tied it round his own. When he had entered Scotland Yard to ask about a case, John wearing the scarf for the first time, Lestrade had done a double take, they'd met eyes, but otherwise, not a word was said on it and Greg had simply shaken his head no. In the beginning, it had been something John had latched on to, but now he found himself automatically winding the fabric round his neck, tucking the end in the loop in one swift move in front of the mirror every morning - whether it was to head down to the shops or a quick walk in the park to clear his head, he was never seen without it.

He wears it now as he sits in his armchair, a plate that holds the remnants of a piece of lemon cake at his side as he types up an email to his sister. She hadn't waited a moment longer after the incident to reach out to her brother, telling him that whatever he needed, she's a call away. John had been tempted to call her bluff (she had done things like these in the past) but forced himself to squash those feelings down and gratefully accept her words - he guessed Harry knew just how vital Sherlock had been to Johns life from his blog; though Harry hadn't always been one to keep her promises, he knew she cared a great deal for him - he needed someone in his life who wasn't his landlady or therapist. And at least she was there. Unlike their rotten father…

John lets out a shaky breath. No. That's the last thing he wants to have weigh on his mind. He finishes up the email, a reply to Harrys weekly checkup on how he's doing, before closing his laptop with a quiet 'thunk' and placing it on the floor beside him. The quiet that surrounds him is slowly broken by Mrs Hudson walking about below in her own flat...baking something, John recognises, when his ears pick up the hum of the oven and the latches of jars being opened. He begins to smile to himself when he hears a song filter through the radio she keeps on her kitchen bench and he leans back to bask in the comfort of it all. Mrs Hudson is a saint, if anything.

John closes his eyes for a moment. The oven door's opened with a sharp squeak before it's slammed closed, and the radio is clicked off. A timer's set, a pair of feet retreat from the kitchen, and once again, the flat is engulfed in silence. In the previous months, it would have bothered John. Would have had him restless and soon bolting to the door for some much needed air. The quiet always consumed him fast, made him feel as if he were choking or drowning and couldn't breathe unless he were far away from this place as soon as possible. But now...now that's gone, and he can go about the various rooms and not have his chest tighten when he feels himself listening out for Sherlock tapping away at his PDA. It's strange. He never thought he would be able to make it here. Wherever here is, exactly, he isn't entirely sure. He isn't 100% okay - he never would be - but he is moving forward. Gradually, taking it day by day, slowly leaving Sherlock in the past but also keeping him deeply rooted in his heart as he always would be. He absentmindedly reaches up to thread his fingers in the scarfs fabric as he thinks on this and the movement makes him sigh heavily. He sinks further into his chair and pushes all those thoughts away, his hands trailing from the scarf to his lap, where he has them stay folded for the time being.

* * *

He doesn't know when he fell asleep.

His hands are still threaded together but his head's bent at an angle that has a muscle in his neck twinge. John winces as he raises a hand to rub at his neck, blinking slowly awake as the world begins to shift back into focus; he looks up in time to catch a figure, their back to him, quietly descending the stairs with their hand on the rail. He frowns and tilts his head, starting when the movement causes him to yell out and the figure turns in an instant. Even at this distance, he can see spots of flour on her dress.

Ah. Mrs. Hudson. Of course.

That's when the strong, yet comforting, smell of honey and cinnamon draws his attention away and he averts his gaze to the small table beside him, where a large plate sits with steam rising off of 12 golden scones. Tiny pottles of jam and cream with their own tiny spoons have been placed beside it and John cracks a small smile at the sight.

His appetite had been incredibly non existent in the months following Sherlocks death, so much so that he hadn't even had the strength to crawl to the cupboard for a box of stale crackers. It was only when Mrs Hudson discovered him wrapped up in Sherlocks bed, tangled in his sheets wearing 3 day old pyjamas and clutching to Sherlocks coat that she took it upon herself to cook his every meal until he could stand on his own feet again, no questions. And John didn't have the energy to protest against it. The pains in his stomach had gotten too much to ignore and he almost leaped up from the bed when Mrs Hudson walked in bearing a large bowl of chicken soup and a bread roll.

He'd weaned himself from the bed in the 5th week of the first month and had started to cook his own food in the middle of the second - though still grieving heavily, he had partly lied to Mrs Hudson about not being able to do it just yet, only because he wanted her to make more of those peanut butter shortbread cookies - but she'd seen through it and with a knowing smile, and a promise to make an endless supply, she'd gone back downstairs and John had laughed as he stirred the sauce for tonights spaghetti and meatballs.

Though it has been awhile since Mrs H found John in such a state, and John has adamantly proved himself to be in a capable enough way to look after himself, she still worries for his wellbeing. And though John does shake her off with a wave of a hand and a firm reassurance that he's alright, he doesn't miss the way her eyes stray over his face, taking in the growing bags under his eyes and the wrinkles becoming more tight on his forehead, but neither say a word as she nods and simply leaves him to it. One time, when John had turned back to sprinkle sugar on his bowl of porridge, he'd heard her footsteps behind him and had turned, in time to have her arms wrap him in a tight, motherly hug, then like that she'd left for the stairs without a word. It had spun John so much that he stood there a moment, feeling her warmth dissipate from his body, and wondered what had suddenly brought that on. Then, when John was settling in for an evening filled with soap operas, his porridge balanced on his knees, it instantly dawned on him that maybe...maybe this is how she had been when he had gotten married and had moved out of 221.

When he had left Sherlock in the apartment. On his own. Unstable and jacked up on drugs to ease the pain. His violin lying untouched for months on his chair…

Johns eyes fly open.

When had he closed them?

A sudden lump sits in his throat and he swallows to push it down, already feeling the hot tears prick his eyelids. Funny. He hasn't cried over him in weeks.

Mrs. Hudson's watching him closely at the doorway, and John realises that neither of them have said a word. Or maybe she has and she's waiting for an answer. He isn't sure. He's just come back from another memory of Sherlock, which does take a moment to recover from.

John clears his throat, and this prompts her to walk forward into the room, a warm smile gracing her features. She's still wearing her apron, She has her hands clasped as she nods to the scones, "Thought you could do with a pick-me-up, John. I know they're one of your favourites."

John too smiles and sits up, ignoring the crick in his neck to lean forward and lift the spoon settled in the cream pot. He chooses the biggest scone, gingerly opens it and begins dolloping the cream on, along with a thick layer of jam. When he settles back, he's surprised to find Mrs. Hudson hasn't moved and is staring at Sherlocks violin case which sits besides a pile of sheet music. He runs his fingers over his neck as he chews on his scone, letting a small smile pull at his lips. Sherlock had wanted, had tried one evening, to teach John how to read sheet music, but John had never been all that interested and had dismissed him, going back to his book while Sherlock continued playing his violin at the window. He'd worn his blue dressing gown and those grey sweats, and to any passerby he'd look like he'd just woken up, but to John he looked almost ethereal, with the suns rays bouncing off his messy curls and his pale blue eyes cutting slowly to John when he realised he'd been staring too long...

Johns stomach curdles.

Stop it.

He bites his scone again, a bit too much this time, and he's suddenly leaning forward, having a coughing fit with his mind trying to still itself of...him. Mrs. Hudson's ripped from her own reverie to aid to John and John closes his eyes for the third time when he feels his face darken in embarrassment. 45 seconds later, Johns fit has ceased and the cream and jam have been cleaned from the carpet - Johns ears go pink at that - and Mrs. Hudson emerges from the kitchen with a damp dish towel in hand. She doesn't look mad. Almost sorrowful. Isn't that how she's always looked? Since Sherlock...did what he had?

He feels a tickle in his throat and coughs to rid it, "Sorry about that, Mrs. Hudson. I don't know what happened, exactly…" His voice trails off. He doesn't know why he needs to apologise.

Mrs H waves the towel and chuckles a little, "It's alright, John. Accidents happen."

He nods, his hands tangled on his lap as he eyes the plate of now lukewarm scones beside him, his own piece, a pile of crumbs, discarded somewhere amongst the lot. His ears turn pink again when he sees the spots of jam around it.

Mrs H smiles kindly, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes," John replies, almost embarrassingly too quickly, and takes a breath to calm himself, "Thank you."

He watches her leave, the silence momentarily broken with the kettle boiling and he feels that warmth come back into his body when he hears Mrs. Hudson rummaging around for a packet of biscuits. She returns with two cups in two saucers, both accompanied by 3 biscuits each, and hands one to John before carefully seating herself across from him.

In Sherlocks chair.

Usually Johns face would pale. Usually his words would stick in his throat and he would struggle to hold Mrs. Hudsons gaze for even a second. She would have been sent out the room by now, simply from a shift in atmosphere or a glimpse at Johns face. And she wouldn't have fought nail and tooth to stay put, already knowing, already understanding with just a look. Seeing someone else - someone who wasn't Sherlock, but, and this hurt the most, an incredibly vivid reminder of Sherlock - in his own chair cut into John as if it were another bullet wound from the war.

Presently, he takes a sip from his cup, seeing Mrs. H do the same from the corner of his eye, and they share a smile but otherwise a peaceful quiet stretches between them. John takes a biscuit and lowers it into his tea, just as Mrs. H speaks up.

She holds her cup with two fingers, the saucer placed on the side table. Her gaze doesn't fully meet his, and he finishes his bite as she asks, "How're you feeling, John?"

John fights the urge to frown. Had she been reading his mind?  
He drops the biscuit and cup on to the saucer and places it on his side table, beside the scones, "Fine. I mean, I'm doing better than...well, than before." He forces a smile which she returns, but it doesn't find it's way to her eyes and as if on cue, the pain in his neck seems to triple. He can't - couldn't - deduce as well as Sherlock, but it doesn't take the brightest mind to tell that something's very off. This feels so oddly like his therapy sessions, which he doesn't take as often as he should. She's not helping all that much. Maybe he should get a new one…

"John?"

"Mm?" His hands fall to his lap and he nods. He's been listening..right? He should stop that.

Mrs. H blinks, opens her mouth to say something, closes it, then puts the cup on the saucer with a "chink" and opens her mouth again. She isn't smiling, "Listen, John, there's something I want to discuss with you."

He doesn't like the word discuss. Not used in that particular tone. Nonetheless, he nods for her to continue, and from the way she clasps her hands on her knees and sits forward, he has an inkling that it's not going to be the best discussion under this roof.

"Please don't think badly of me when I say this. Really, I've loved you being here…" She hesitates and Johns finds himself leaning forward, "Don't you think it's time you moved on, John? From…" She gestures around the room, but doesn't continue, and if John looks closely, he can about see how much this pains Mrs. Hudson to talk on. Anything involving Sherlock is a difficult subject, especially with recent events.

John stares at her. What...what is she talking about? He chokes out a disbelieved laugh, "Um..I...what...what'd you…move on?"

Mrs. Hudson nods. Hands together again, "I believe you when you say you're getting better. I know, I've seen it."

He scoffs but otherwise remains quiet. He wants to hear this.

Her expression softens and she reaches out to him. Her voice is firm. "But John, listen to me. You spending most of your time here when you're not at work or out shopping...it just isn't good for you. You're surrounded by Sherlock in this flat."

He wants to laugh. She can't be serious, can she? Not once has she brought this up to him, and he knows how much she must have prepared to have this talk with him, pacing in her flat downstairs, guessing Johns responses. This had no doubt been a difficult topic to work around in her head and getting it out must have taken some emotional strength.

So he decides to go with it. No outbursts. No refusing to hear her out. He pushes it all down and gives her his full attention, though his fingers begin picking idly at a loose thread on his right arm rest, "So...what you're saying is...you want me...to move out?" He says it slowly, like he hasn't quite heard her correctly, and while he definitely has, he really feels like a part of his brain hasn't quite latched on to her words.

Her expression tightens, "I..think it would be best, yes."

He purses his lips. This feels a little like speaking to Mycroft - delivered the most plainest information, that's been said in the most riddled way possible, then slapped hard across the face to let it sink in. The slap hasn't gotten there yet, but he can feel it coming.

He can't find anything to say to this.

Mrs. Hudson leans back into the chair and smiles gently, and it's so unexpected that Johns mind whirls, "I'm not kicking you out, John." She laughs to herself and to John, it's the same sensation as being stabbed in the heart, "No, of course you're welcome to stay as long as you want." She pauses, "I just think that it would be better if you found somewhere that doesn't have Sherlock written all over it."

What the hell does that mean?

Push it down.

Johns entire body is tense. He lets his body relax when he sees Mrs. H go back to her tea, but when she takes a sip, her face twists and he knows his has gone cold too. The scones have turned to rocks and the biscuits have no doubt run stale in the warm air - those facts he can focus on. But this? Mrs. Hudson suggesting he leave Baker Street?

Ah.

It's processed.

And there's the slap.

John waits for Mrs. H to put her cup back on her saucer before standing briskly from his chair. He can feel the anger burning in his stomach and he suddenly needs out of here before he fires it on to his poor landlady. Before she can utter a word, John walks to the door. He only gets a few steps when Mrs. Hudson speaks,

"John? You alright?"

He stops in his tracks, shakes his head, then turns to give her a hard look, with his lips pulled into a wry smile. His entire body's fighting with such an intense emotion and he feels as if he might burst any minute if he doesn't leave. He puts his hand to his head, then flings it away to spit out, "I'm going to Sherlocks grave."

Mrs. Hudsons face seems to lose a little of its colour. He'd stopped visiting after the 4th month, and had only gone when things had gotten really bad. Or as Sherlock would put it - when he felt a danger night looming.

"I don't know when I'll be back, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow afternoon." He sighs, hand going to his head again to push at the frown lines. His voice lowers a notch; though upset, he can squash it for just a moment. "And- and I don't know if I'll even come back here. Maybe I'll stay at Harrys for awhile."

Mrs. Hudson moves to stand, but John's already heading out with nothing but the shirt on his back.

When the door slams shut, Mrs. Hudson gets up from the chair and gathers hers and Johns cups and saucers, along with his crumbed plate from earlier and the batch of scones. She covers the scones in plastic wrap, to put in her own fridge, then disposes of the biscuits in the rubbish and places the plate, cups and saucer in the sink. But as she's holding a saucer, her hand bumps against the tap and it slips from her grasp, tumbling to the floor.

She doesn't reach down to catch it. Why should she? It's just a saucer.


	2. Chapter 2

The flowers look almost worse than he remembered.

Though, he is - or rather was - the only one replacing them. There's all sorts clumped at the headstone; peonies, roses, yellow daisies, tulips, and a few pink begonias.

Of course they'd all been dried up from the sun; brown and shriveled, falling apart, practically unrecognisable. But even months later, John still remembers what these flowers were. He even remembers the exact time and dates of when he'd brought the bunches - sometimes he carried a picnic basket filled with all sorts of goodies along with it and had just simply sat and talked to the headstone, as if it could respond back. Other times it had been hot tea in a flask and a good book, with the stone used as some temporary company before he grew tired and fell asleep beside it. At the beginning, however, he'd had his phone in hand and had read out cases that he thought Sherlock would have been interested in, laughing through his tears until his battery had died and he'd had to walk home in the dark. But that had become too much and he'd switched to the picnic basket 2 and a half weeks later.

No one's around. Not that anyone would be here in the late afternoon. Or maybe they would. It wasn't uncommon for people to show in the cemetery at this time of day. And visiting hours didn't exist, unlike in a prison or a hospital…

John sighs.

He's doing it again.

John stares at the headstone, shoving his hands in his pockets as the suns rays set behind him. It makes the stone look somewhat beautiful. A sad beauty if you could call it that.

That's what Sherlock had been.

He clenches his jaw when a deep ache suddenly makes it's place in his chest and he quickly looks away from the headstone when his vision begins to become glassy. His fingers curl into his palms and it takes every inch of him to stop from kicking the damn stone down.

There is a reason he had stopped coming here, and only allowed himself to do so when he felt his mind spiralling down - it had just gotten too hard. He had worn himself to exhaustion just from staring at the stone and letting his mind wander - to what ifs he had seen through this, to alternate universes where Sherlock hadn't done this, to a made up future where him and Sherlock lived happily in Baker Street. He had spun up all of them. And not one filled the ever growing wound in his heart. None of them ever could; he'd realised that after waking beside the headstone, swallowed up by Sherlocks coat which he had used as a makeshift blanket, and his eyes had been burning from a break down in the previous evening.

That had been on the third month.

But that was alright in itself. Because he had to have stopped kidding himself sooner or later. Sherlock wasn't coming back.

Well. That was after he had been seeing him on the streets. And the break down had really just been a culmination of all his false sightings.

As far as John was concerned, Sherlock had been a homeless man, a pushy customer, even a father taking his kids to school.

Of course Mrs. Hudson hadn't seen them. She never had. They'd always vanished as soon as she'd looked in the direction John had been pointing.

His therapist had said he was simply going through the motions of grief, and it would pass in time. And thankfully she had been right. But it had been like wading through very thick mud to get through this stage. A few times he had sworn up and down that their mailman had changed because "he didn't have black curly hair before" and Mrs. Hudson had just stared at him with owl like eyes. Once he had even tried to attack somebody who had Sherlocks distinct gravely voice but had insisted they had no idea what he was on about.

His appointments had become a lot more frequent after that day.

A part of him wanted to blame all those sleepless nights of tossing and turning from the playback in his mind of Sherlock jumping off the roof. Though, another part wanted to punch Mycroft for seeming to be incredibly indifferent to the lies the newspaper articles had been throwing in about his younger brother. Oh, god. Mycroft…

Johns nails dig into his palms at the mere thought of the older Holmes sibling.

Nope.

Not letting that come to the surface today. He has enough to deal with that doesn't involve Mycroft Holmes.

A cool breeze begins to pick up and it rustles the trees leaves above, before sweeping down on the fallen ones surrounding Johns feet. John clears his throat, finally bringing his gaze back to the headstone. The sun has almost hidden behind the hills and there's a bright orange glow on the black; it shines on Sherlocks name, and the sight has John swallowing the always present lump in his throat. His fingers unfurl from their palms and he brings one out to run through his hair, while taking a careful step closer to the headstone.

One of the flowers stems crunches underneath his shoe and he inwardly winces. He should have stopped off at the shop on his way here…

He swallows and fixes his eyes on the name. While everyone elses had been made out of stone, John had requested Sherlocks be made from black marble and his name be done in a thin gold lettering; bold yet simple. Sherlock would have liked it.

He had expected Mycroft to turn his nose up at that, to argue that he knew his brother best, but to Johns surprise, he had simply nodded and let John do as he wished. Something else that John had wanted was for the headstone to be placed far off from the cemetery, to have it's own enclosure, but that, he had to admit, was pushing it. Mycroft chose the coffin; though, how he chose it, with just a gesture at a simple birch, as if he had not put a drop of thought into his own brothers funeral, made Johns blood boil.

He sighs. No. Let it go.

The suns rays finally vanish and like that, the temperature suddenly drops. The wind has died down after having carried the leaves far off from where John's stood and there are only a few left near the base of the headstone. He stoops down to gather the dead flowers, and his fingers enclose around the petal of what once had been a bright red rose - without a moments hesitation, he crushes it in his palm then lets it drop onto the grass, his eyes following the pieces as they touch down one by one. His gaze roams up and lands on Sherlocks name, and he finds himself stilling, with the remaining flowers clutched in his right hand. Slowly, he reaches out to trace his fingers over the lettering and his heart squeezes; a lump comes into his throat and he draws back, looking away as he finally stands. It's been so damn long, and he still can't do it. He just. Can't.

Without looking back, he tosses the flowers behind him and raises a hand to cover his eyes as he lets the tears finally fall. A sob crawls at his throat, but he doesn't do a thing to stop it coming through.

God, why was this so difficult?

Why was everything so bloody difficult?

Gradually, his cries begin to subside and he wipes his eyes and nose, swallowing the remaining tears down. He'd done so much crying through these months over him, and though he needed one every now and again, right now just wasn't the time.

He can already feel the tears dry on his cheeks, but he doesn't clear them off and instead steps up to the headstone and lowers himself on to the grass, where his palms brush over the pieces of the dried rose petals. Crossing his legs, he stretches back for the dead flowers and gathers them in his hands, with his gaze roaming over the headstone. As much as he wants to look away, as much as he wants to let the sadness take him over, he pushes it all down and forces himself to look at the lettering; to take it all in in one go.

Jesus, it's so much. All of this.

The crick in his neck almost worsens, and his eyes are burning, and his muscles just utterly ache, but he needs to do this. He has to. He did this all those months ago, why can't he do it now?

Because of the dead flowers.

It was the realisation that he'd been the putting them there. No one else. Not Mycroft. Not his parents. Not even Mrs. Hudson. Not even a bloody stranger out of respect. He had been the very last one to visit his grave. And that makes his stomach lurch.

Oh..Oh god…

Sherlock…

To his surprise, tears well up in his eyes, but he immediately wipes them off with his sleeve and takes a shuddering breath. He can do this. Even if it bloody kills him, he can do this.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The flowers're being shredded in his hands and the petals are floating to mold with the grass. He ignores it. Gives all his attention to the headstone. He zips his jacket up to his chin but the cold still somehow manages to seep through and he can feel the leaves above him slow to a gentle rustle; dropping the stems on the ground, he folds his hands on his lap and lets a watery smile come onto his face. His eyes hold no warmth whatsoever. He can't force anything but a smile. He knows this is as far as he can let himself go without another break down coming on, but it's good enough. It has to be.

"I've got some news, Sherlock." His voice is hollow, like it's not his own. It's husked from crying and he clears his throat. Gotta do it. "Mrs. Hudson, she - she um…" He sniffs, wipes his nose with his right sleeve, "She wants me to move out." The words are out. Finally. He finds himself chuckling. Jesus, "Can you believe it? Me, move out of Baker Street?" He shakes his head, easing himself into the absurdity of it all; Mrs. Hudsons funny idea and...him talking to a bloody headstone as the stars come out. He goes quiet for a moment. Glances down at his hands as he begins to twiddle his thumbs and lets out a breath when he feels his chest tighten.

Look at the headstone.

"I thought we would stay there forever."

God.

His voice is so..broken.

He carries on. He has to or he won't make it through the night.

"I thought - um - that we would be solving cases together - forever - but now...well, you know. You've gone and done...this, so that's - um - that's off the table. And now," He pauses to chuckle, but it's so incredibly fake. "Now Mrs. H wants me out." Something comes to him and his mouth forms an 'O' shape as he holds his hands out, "Oh, but don't get the wrong idea, Sherlock, she just thinks it would be better for me. You know?" He puts his hands together again. "She thinks me being surrounded by all your stuff is - um - well, a bad thing." His brows knit together. It sounded incredulous coming from his own mouth, "Bad for my health," He clarifies, as if the headstone's staring at him with a lost expression. His fingers find the end of the scarf and he begins to stroke it as he continues, "I don't know if I will." He confesses, "I love Baker Street. Even if I don't have you keeping me up half the night with your bloody violin." Another chuckle, real this time. As real as it can be. "If I did move out...I think I would take some of your things…? - Yeah, yeah I would. That'd be okay, right? I mean, what would Mrs. H do with them? Toss them into storage most likely. Mycroft would probably sell them. Who knows with him. Holmes boys, always been unpredictable…"

He's rambling. He knows he's rambling. But sometimes, he just needs to hear his own voice to know he's there. Touching the grass isn't always enough.

"But - um - yeah, I don't know what I'll do. About moving out, I mean. I don't want to, no. Baker Street's my home." He smiles. The hand that isn't touching the scarf grabs at the pieces of petals, "Used to be our home." He swallows. Change the subject. "I haven't dated anyone since...well, since what happened. That's the easiest way to put it. Don't really know what that says about me." He smiles, amused and shakes his head, directs a question onto the headstone, "What would you say about that? I mean, you never did say anything when everyone assumed, did you? I always wondered why." He'd never spoken this aloud, and...for some very odd reason, he feels this deeply buried weight lift from his shoulders, as if it had always resided there and had only now been given permission to leave. He tilts his head, confused, "Maybe you didn't hear them, but of course you did, because you were always with me when they asked." The hand holding the petals drops them to gather tufts of grass and he pulls them as he carries on, now lost in thought, and his voice takes on a gradual edge. He's suddenly furious over the idea. "Maybe you did hear them, but you didn't say anything because you were embarrassed. But why would you be? You'd told me on the first day that girlfriends weren't your area, so you would feel comfortable over being assumed that you had a boyfriend. But were you uncomfortable because they thought Iwas your boyfriend? Was that...was that a bad thing, Sherlock? People thinking we were together?"

He stops.

He's breathing heavily, and his eyes are filled with tears, which he lets run down his cheeks. Hot. Stinging on his skin. His finger nails are covered in dirt and there are grass stains on his finger tips.

Swallowing, he lets the clump of grass spill back onto the ground, and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes until he can see stars. In one quick move, he unwraps the scarf from his neck and leans forward to place it on top of the headstone, before he really loses it.

Dammit. Where was he?

Rambling again. Of course.

A breath. He opens his mouth to speak some more, but one more look at the stone tells him that he's said enough for tonight. He's utterly worn out, both mentally and emotionally. Physically too in a roundabout way; the pain in his legs becomes too much and he stretches them out in front of him, now feeling the cold on his neck, but he can't take the scarf back. It doesn't belong to him anymore. Should have realised that months ago.

Before he lays down for the night, he feels more words come to the front of his mind, and he almost whispers his next set of sentences, "I've been telling myself for months that you're not dead." He hesitates, "And - and I know I should've accepted it along with everyone else. But I never have been everyone, have I?" He smiles, "I saw you everywhere for a while. And in a way, that was nice. That...helped, somehow." He stops. He really has nothing else to say; nothing that's already been said those months ago, anyway. Except...for one thing…

Sherlocks headstone shines so brightly in the moonlight. Black marble coupled with gold lettering really was the best idea. And it's so perfectly him.

John shuts his mouth. He knows he can ramble as much as he wants. Speak until his voice grows hoarse. Stay out past midnight simply talking to air. But he can't say the words. Not what he knows he really needs to say. He isn't ready. And he doesn't know if he will be.

He shifts to lie beside the headstone, putting his hands up behind his head so he's flat on his back to face the sky. His clothes will be drenched with dew in the morning, and he'll be stiff from sleeping in an odd position, and maybe he will awake by a kid laughing at the drool coming from his mouth, but he doesn't care. He never has. As long as he's near Sherlock, he's okay.

He sighs and places a hand on his stomach, watching the clouds pass over the moon. The burning in his eyes seem to intensify and as the seconds go by, he can feel the heaviness creep into his body and pull him down. He doesn't have the strength to fight it and lets sleep consume him, his head tilted towards the headstone, while his hand shifts to the grass again.

For just a split second, the wind picks up, and blows Sherlocks scarf on to Johns outstretched hand.

He doesn't feel it.

Chapter Management


	3. Chapter 3

"Excuse me, sir? Are you alright?"

John groans and stretches his arms above his head, as he slowly blinks awake, "W...What?" He lifts his head to see a figure stood over him.

He's tall. Really tall. The light's shining behind him so his silhouette's a bit fuzzy, though he can see he's wearing casual attire (a plain white shirt, with a black jacket, jeans, and black sneakers and he has black sunglasses on his forehead) and he has his hands at his sides. As Johns memories of last night start to come through, finally, he groans again and sighs, dropping his head back on the grass and he can feel the dew catch on his hair, making him close his eyes. With the warmth of the sun on his face, he feels himself drift back to sleep and he smiles…

Until.

"Sir?"

The figures voice has him jolt in surprise, but he lays still and puts a hand over his eyes, "Mm?" Maybe if he lies here long enough, he'll leave.

"Are you alright?" He repeats.

It takes a moment to sink in that the man's american, which causes John to frown and drop his hand to push himself up. As always, his body hurts all over, possibly from sleeping on the hard ground, and his jumper's sopping wet from the dew. He slowly takes it off, holding it one hand, then rubs at his eyes before finally looking up at the man, who to his surprise, has a hand out and his knees are slightly bent.

"Need a hand?"

John nods and lifts his hand, letting the figure pull him up. Once stood, he grabs his jumper and yawns, "Thanks."

"Not a problem." The figure straightens up and moves so he's face to face with him.

Now up close, and with the sun not blinding his vision, John can see him a little better; his hair has been slicked back with some sort of product, though there are a few strands that he's pushed to the front. His face is impeccably clean cut, and he has sharp cheekbones and brows, one currently lowered as he notices John's looking him over, but what really catches Johns attention are his eyes - they're a gorgeous, pale blue, and they're full of warmth; warmth, he realises, directed at him.

 _This man is...beautiful._

John clears his throat when he feels his cheeks flush and he lowers his gaze to the ground. The action makes the man chuckle deeply and John can feel his collar tighten, but he doesn't look up again.

He holds out a hand again, "I'm Stephen."

 _His voice. There's something familiar about it..._

John finds himself smiling and without thinking, meets his eyes to take it, "John."

Stephens lips split into an amused grin and he nods to the headstone, "You always fall asleep in cemeteries?"

He laughs softly, "Lately, yes."

Stephen quirks a brow and his smile falls a bit, "Lately?"

John glances back, his shoulders beginning to sag, "You haven't - um - heard of Sherlock Holmes, have you? With the - uh - incident that happened 7 months ago?"

"I've only been in England these last few months. Was he a good friend of yours?"

"...He was my best friend. My only friend, really." He snorts to ease the tension in the air, as he always did, as Stephen takes this in.

Something hard presses down on Johns chest, but he ignores it to wait on this strangers reaction. Usually when he told people this, they went quiet and looked at him with the utmost pity on their faces. Some touched his arm and whispered 'sorry's' while others looked on in mild discomfort as John purposefully avoided their eyes.

Wonder if this man would differ for once.

To his immense shock, tears immediately form in Stephens eyes. He glances at the headstone as they roll down his cheeks, but he doesn't wipe them away and when he looks back at John, all the warmth has gone and is replaced with something cold and sad.

"What happened?"

His voice doesn't waver. His lips aren't shaking and his tone is firm, like he truly wants to know and isn't just asking to make polite conversation. It almost bowls John over; it's an entirely different reaction to everybody he's met over this.

John's had to retell this story to many people over the course of his grieving, and everytime it's the same; the words stick in his throat, the air leaves his lungs, and he can never finish it without bursting into tears or wanting to suddenly throw up. Most of the time he just wants to pull a paper from his back pocket and shove it to their chests.

But he doesn't have that intense reaction for this man.

He watches Stephens face for a moment, and wonders how serious this guy is; if it's own feelings giving him away, or this man is just that good at pretending. But everything about Stephen seems genuine and it makes John sigh and look away.

God dammit.

He squares his shoulders and takes a breath, but as he's about to launch into it, Stephen interrupts, "It's okay if you don't want to tell me, John, I understand."

Like that, John falls quiet. He frowns, "Really?"

"Of course." He gives a sad smile and motions a hand to the headstone. The warmth comes back into his eyes in a flash. "I can't imagine how painful this has been for you, so I don't expect you to open up to me." He laughs lightly, "Besides, I found you sleeping next to his headstone, so I would be a bit of an arsehold if I started pushing you to tell me."

John chokes out a laugh, but it sounds more like a sob.

Stephens voice is so gentle and he's being so considerate with him, that he's at a complete loss for words. No one he's told the story to has been this way. They're always pushy and rude and none of them took his feelings into account - well, except of course for those closest to him. But this is a stranger. Surely he should be like the others.

But he isn't.

He's the exact opposite. He _cares_. And he's _patient_ with him.

He doesn't realise he's crying until he sees a tear drop fall on the grass. He sniffs and finds his throat is thick with emotion; even if he wanted to speak, he couldn't without breaking the damn. With Stephens eyes on him, he wipes his face and feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment, "S-Sorry, it's just…" He laughs bitterly, "No one's been like that since...since it happened."

Stephen doesn't say anything, just continues to watch him and wait for him to compose himself.

When the tears finally stop, he sighs heavily and slowly looks up at Stephen, now feeling the weight of the jumper in his hands, "I should get home…."

Stephens eyes search him a moment, before he visibly swallows and nods, "Yes. Yes, I think you should."

It's not nasty. Almost... _sad_.

He moves away for John to walk past him, but he's only take 3 steps when Stephen speaks up, "I'm a Neurosurgeon."

John stops. Turns, "Sorry?"

"I work at Barts Hospital. Just started there 5 weeks ago."

"Really?" He ignores the ache in his stomach at the mention of Barts.

Stephen puts his hands in his pockets, "Do you want to get Coffee? I have to be in this afternoon, but my break's not till 3."

John mulls this over.

This is a stranger. Someone who didn't know Sherlock. Someone who was interested in his story, but who was okay with not knowing it right away and who was understanding and careful with him, for quite possibly the very first time since this awful thing happened.

It doesn't take him very long to make up his mind.

"Have you been to Speedys?"

* * *

John almost races back home.

Usually he would have taken the long route to clear his head a bit more before he got to the flat, but he's so emotionally drained that all he has on his mind right now is a hot shower, a mug of tea, and a warm, comfy bed to crawl in to. The jumper seems to get heavier with every step, and his chest and lungs are burning, but when he sees the block of flats up ahead, he slows his pace and lets himself take a breath for the first time since he left the cemetery.

As he leans against a tree, one hand pressed to his side, he begins to think back on the stranger he had met at Sherlocks grave.

Everything about him had been so achingly familiar, but John just can't put a finger to it. It was as if he had met this man before, some time ago, but he would definitely remember somebody who had eyes like his. And he had just...shown up. Had offered John a hand and been incredibly lovely in his approach to Sherlocks story. It was so bizarre, so perfectly odd, and yet...something about them meeting had felt so right, too.

John exhales and pushes his back against the tree.

Now he's going to meet this man for coffee later. Why? So they can talk about how his recent surgery went? So John can divulge a play through of what happened on the roof of Barts?

Either way, John can't help feeling intrigued to meet him again.

He just can't understand why a man like him would take a sudden interest in someone who was found sleeping next to the headstone of his dead best friend.

He bursts through the door of 221B moments later, practically gasping for air as he falls against the wall, closing his eyes to concentrate on his breathing. With his hand on his chest, he sinks to the floor and spreads his legs out in front of him; his heart's hammering underneath his shirt.

He must have been breathing loudly, because there's the click of a door opening and Johns eyes open to see Mrs. Hudson appear in the hallway in a pale pink skirt and olive green cardigan, worry etched on her features.

"Oh, John, dear, you're back!"

John smiles at her, dropping his hand on the floor as his landlady steps nearer to him and silently watches him. She pauses.

"Did you run here?"

He shuts his eyes again. Nods.

There's a beat and when she speaks next, her voice is gentle and sincere.

"John, I wanted to apologise about yesterday. I know I shouldn't have brought it up, but it had been on my mind for a while and I wasn't sure how you were going to…"

John sighs, "It's...alright, Mrs. Hudson." He opens his eyes, keeps them on her this time and puts his hand in his lap while the other wipes the sweat from his forehead. His shirt's sticking to him and all he wants right now is a shower. He scrambles to his feet, beginning to smile again, "Really, it's fine. I...just needed...to think it over."

"And what have you decided?"

He lets out a final breath then pushes himself off the wall, "I'd like to stay, if that's okay with you."

She grins, "It's your choice, dear."

They look at one another, until something comes to John, "I'm sorry for getting short with you. I was being ridiculous."

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head, "Water under the bridge, John."

Another beat. As the seconds tick by, John thinks about Stephen again, and for a moment, he considers telling her about him, but before he can open his mouth, she nods to the stairwell.

"Best get changed out of those clothes."

And that's all it takes for John to head up into the flat.

He has the longest shower he's ever had, but he knows he needs it. By the time he's washed and dressed, the burning in his chest has settled down and the pain in his neck has almost vanished, except for the occasional twinge which he can tolerate to a degree. He tousles his hair with the towel then throws it over the door and goes out to the kitchen, where the dishes from yesterday are lain in the sink.

After making a cup of strong tea and toast, he goes into the lounge, where he switches on the tv and settles in for a quiet morning before his lunch at Speedys.

* * *

He switches it off a half hour later.

In truth, he can't stop thinking about his meeting with Stephen; he wonders if he should have told Mrs. Hudson about him. She would have been overjoyed to hear he had met someone, even if it had been brought on from him passing out in the cemetery and not at a bookshop or somewhere...well, normal. No. It isn't really her business and he doesn't have to tell her about everything that happens to him, except for when she's worried of course.

He leans back into the chair and sips at his tea. Waiting for this felt like waiting for a date. He's slightly nervous, a tiny bit giddy, and he feels like time is going on forever. But you wouldn't know that if you walked in.

He smiles as he remembers his face again.

His sharp cheekbones, his cupid bow lips, and his eyes.

 _Oh, his eyes._

They had been so striking and so bright against the sunlight. He could almost lose himself in them.

He snorts as he feels his ears turn pink. Jesus, what was he doing? He had only met him in the span of 3 minutes and he's already daydreaming about the colour of his eyes. He doesn't know why, but just thinking about him sends his heart soaring.

How could anyone be that handsome?

And...how could anyone have such recognisable facial features?

John frowns into his tea. Where the hell had he seen him before?

 _…..Oh…_

 _oH…_

 _Oh god…_

 _It couldn't be….Could it?_

Johns heart plummets and his grip on the cup only slightly loosens, but his mind is in an utter shutdown. He really thought he'd been getting better - it had taken months of speaking to his therapist and many nights of crying himself to sleep, whether that be in the cemetery or Sherlocks bed, to get to where he is now. He had almost made it.

Now it just took a single meeting with a stranger to drop him all the way back to the beginning.

Before he can stop himself, really think hard on this and process it, he picks up the saucer and flings it against the wall, along with the cup so tea flies everywhere; some splash backs to him, but he isn't in the right mind to register the burning on his cheek. He hasn't felt such a strong reaction for years - even yesterday wasn't this bad.

Everything he's worked for, everything that he's pushed down, all his progress, has been a complete and utter waste.

An angry cry rips from his throat and he buries his face in his hands as sobs wrack his body. All the happiness he'd felt upon meeting Stephen has vanished and in it's position is total loathing and frustration. Boiling frustration.

He hasn't cried this hard in so long...and it bloody hurts.

John curls himself on the chair with his knees to his chest, his hands to his eyes. He doesn't stop the tears from coming, just lets himself feel it as he always has, and only now does the burning on his cheek begin to hit. But he does absolutely nothing to calm it.

He isn't coming back. He's dead. He isn't coming back. He never will. You buried him. You chose the headstone. You said a speech. He's dead.

John doesn't feel Mrs. Hudsons arm around him.

He doesn't feel her leading him to the bathroom, or the cold flannel pressed on his cheek. He doesn't feel her taking him to Sherlocks room, or the pillows underneath his head, or the blanket over his body. He doesn't hear the door being shut, or feel his mind giving in to sleep. But he does feel the absence of Sherlocks scarf around his neck, and he pushes his face into the cloth of the pillow to silently scream in agony before he collapses.

* * *

Night's fallen when he wakes.

The moons rays shine through the cracks in Sherlocks blinds and land on Johns face, making his skin look sheet white. His throat is sore from screaming and his limbs are weak; he can't even get out of bed without stumbling on to the floor. Right, still half asleep.

He runs his tongue over his lips, only to feel his mouth has gone dry, and he blinks against the floor as he presses his palms to the carpet. Gradually, he heaves himself up, taking it step by step until he makes it to the kitchen for a glass of water. The only light is from the moon and the streetlamps outside, and they're just enough for him to find the tap. Once he's chugged it down, he makes for the bathroom, but just as he reaches for the handle, a voice comes out from the lounge,

"John, are you alright?"

"JESUS!"

Johns head bangs against the door and he groans as Mrs. Hudson switches on the lamp beside Sherlocks chair, a book in hand which she drops. Upon seeing him, she gets up and hurries over, but John's already slipped to the floor with his eyes closed.

At first, he looks to have passed out, but he raises a hand to rub at his forehead and she exhales in relief as she crouches down to get a better look at him.  
"Sorry, John, I thought you'd seen me."

John winces, "How could I've? You were sitting in the bloody dark!" He wearily opens his eyes to see Mrs. Hudson staring back at him...smiling?What the hell is she smiling about? He sucks in a breath when he feels the lump on his head. Yip. That's going to hurt in the morning. Bloody hell.

She helps him to his feet and takes him to his chair, where he collapses in exhaustion. He's always so tired, no matter how much sleep he gets, but sometimes this doesn't seem to register with his landlady. He sighs, already feeling himself fall back to sleep.

But, of course, Mrs. H doesn't see this in the slightest.

He opens his eyes again and immediately has the lights lamp blearing into his vision. She still has a smile on her face, but it's not a pleased one like before - it's sad this time. He knows he isn't going to be able to go back to sleep even if he tried; whether he's out here or in Sherlocks room. He's practically wide awake now. Well, his brain is. His body just never wants to wake up ever again, it's in so much pain.

John exhales slowly, but stays quiet.

Mrs. Hudson considers him for a moment then opens her mouth. "I know it was a suggestion, John, but really -"

"Mrs. Hudson…" John starts. God, he doesn't have any strength left in any part of himself to deal with _this_ right now. But...he has to. He has to. He holds out a hand to silence her and she doesn't protest, "Please, just...listen, alright?" He has so much patience with her, it's astounding. Even Sherlock couldn't get this far without rattling off random deductions, "I don't want to talk about that right now."

She nods and is about to reply, but Johns hand goes up again and she understands.

He folds his hands together, and puts his lips to his knuckles for a mere second, as he prepares for what he's about to tell her. He's just praying he won't get a lecture on leaving Baker Street, or a promise to go back to his therapist, which, god forbid that's happening at all.

He looks up and holds her gaze, his chin rested on his fingers. Please let her take this better than he did.

"I'm still seeing Sherlock, Mrs. H."


	4. Chapter 4

The interior of 221B is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Mrs. Hudson doesn't say anything for a long while. Her mouth is open, but nothing comes out. Not a gasp, or a word, or a disappointed sigh. All she does is stare blankly at John.

He decides to continue, and draws a breath in.

"Yesterday, at the cemetery. When I woke up, I - um - someone woke me up and." He pauses when he feels himself smile a little in disbelief and clears his throat, "Well, he - he looked a lot..like Sherlock, Mrs. H."

She blinks at him, but still doesn't reply.

"And - um…" He coughs into his hand. This might be a bit tough to get out, "And I think this time's different. I think it really might be him this time."

Mrs. Hudsons face falls and she folds her hands on her lap, "Oh, John…"

Johns sighs, "I - I know, alright? But, please, just - just hear me out…"

Before he can try to find the right words, she's already standing from the chair and heading to the kitchen. John has no choice but to follow. He's not dropping this; he needs her to listen, no matter how long it takes.

She begins boiling the kettle, and he knows it's a distraction, because he's done this too on more than one occasion when he's sick of stewing in the quiet. She doesn't look his way once as he comes to stand beside her and starts rattling off all he can remember about him. Anything to convince her that maybe...maybe he hasn't gone off the deep end this time. If he can get to her, then he knows he doesn't need to start again.

"His cheekbones - they - they were sharp, like his and - and his eyes - they were this really, pale blue, and he had black hair, but it had all this product in it and - and his voice was deep, exactly like Sherlocks!"

A teacup suddenly shatters next to him and he jumps back, his words having died in his throat. Mrs. Hudson's hand has flecks of blood on the fingers and is shaking violently, but she doesn't move to inspect it, nor to pick up the pieces of porcelain that are slowly spilling to the floor. The kettle finally clicks off, but it's as if neither of them hear it; Johns heart is in his ears and his throat is growing steadily hotter as he watches his landlady stare at the ground, her palms pressed to the edge of the bench. No matter how much he's pestered her about his false Sherlock sightings, she hasn't ever reacted like this.

"...John…"

She almost whispers his name, like it's painful just to have it fall off her tongue. Her hand, the one that's spotted with blood, jerks slightly, but otherwise stays in place and Johns eyes dart from her hair to the broken handle on the ground.

Finally, she raises her head to look at him, and he's stunned to see tears in her eyes - and they're not from the teacup. They're from him.

She shakes her head, her voice still low, "Please, stop this. He isn't coming back, you have to know that…"

He gives a hollow laugh and heads through the hallway door, making for his bedroom before he can hear anything else, but when he hears her feet padding behind him, he stops at the doorway and shakes his head, already feeling his left hand clench and unclench at his side.

A huge part of him wants to keep walking and slam the door shut. Another part wants to spin around and give his landlady a piece of his mind. But when he hears a small whimper behind him, he turns and his eyes instantly land on Mrs. Hudsons bleeding hand - which, he realises, needs immediate attention. All the anger slips out of him as he slowly approaches her and she stares up at him, expecting him to say something on her comment, but instead he reaches down to gently take her hand in his, his voice soft.

"It's alright…"

He lifts it to eye level and turns it over, his mind already running with what he has to hunt in the cabinet for to patch her up. It's a deep cut, he notices, running from her index finger to the middle of her palm and there's blood everywhere - it's already dripping on his own fingers.

He's beyond tired at this point, but right now, she needs him.

And in a way, he needs her.

In minutes, they're stood in the middle of the bathroom as he wraps a white gauze around the palm of her hand.

The light's a lot brighter in here than in the lounge and it brings on a piercing headache for John, which he dutifully ignores, though he makes note to grab a couple of ibruprofen from the medicine cabinet in the kitchen after this is all done; Mrs. Hudson's wiping her eyes with a tissue John had given her earlier, and he glances at it as she tucks it away in the sleeve of her cardy.

Sighing in relief, he takes the clip from the sink and carefully snaps the end of the bandage in place, "There."

He turns and begins zipping up the first aid kit, but just as he grabs the handles bag, Mrs. Hudson puts her good hand on his shoulder and he looks her way to see her smiling warmly at him. She looks almost as worn as he feels.

John puts his hand on hers, and that's all it takes for him to bring her in for a tight hug. He puts the kit back on to the sink to hold her in his arms, and she sighs against his cheek, but otherwise, not a word's said between them for a long minute.

He knows deep down that he would be utterly lost if it wasn't for her. He used to be the one to keep Sherlock in check, and in a way, Sherlock would do that for him too. But most of the time, it would be John giving him a slight nudge in the right direction; it took a very long time for John to realise that he never truly had anyone to do that for him, because...well, he never needed anyone to do so. He'd been perfectly capable of knowing what was right and wrong and when he was needed in certain situations.

He had gone months blaming himself for Sherlocks suicide, knowing that if he had seen through it sooner, he probably would have had time to go up to the roof and stop him. And his final words to him had never stopped playing in his head, even months and months on; every single day, as if they had been printed on the front of his brain.

His mental state had been completely knocked off kilter and he really knows that if he didn't have Mrs. Hudson around, he probably...eventually would have been tipped off the deep end and have gone the same route as Sherlock had...

John silently thanked heaven and earth for Mrs. Hudson. She had been his saving grace in this completely hellish time.

His chest suddenly clenches and he closes his eyes, feeling emotion build in his throat. He takes a shuddering breath and he's almost able to hold it in...except...Mrs. Hudson chooses that exact moment to break the silence;

"It's not your fault, John."

Oh.

For the second time in two days, he finds himself sobbing uncontrollably over Sherlock, but this time it's more cathartic than anything. He goes to clutch onto Mrs. Hudson, but she gently pushes him away, though still keeps him at arms length.

He hurriedly wipes his face, quickly feeling like a small child crying in front of his mother. She's seen him cry so many times through these months, but it still makes him feel ridiculously embarrassed and he avoids her eyes as she watches him, patiently waiting for him to gather himself.

His shoulders fall as he stares at the floor, "God, I'm sorry."

She sighs, "Look at me, John."

He carefully brings his gaze up to hers and his vision instantly blurs. He blinks to let the tears go and she hands him a tissue from the box on the window sill, continuing to speak as he dabs at his cheeks.

"You have nothing to apologise for. You're a lovely doctor and an equally lovely person, and Sherlock was so lucky to have you. He wouldn't want you blaming yourself for what happened, would he?"

John swallows. He pushes the tissue against his eye when he feels more tears coming through. He shakes his head, and she pulls him in for another hug.

"We don't have to talk about the man you met at the cemetery."

He smiles against her shoulder. He's so incredibly grateful to have her here.

"Thank you."

/

John wakes late to a full english breakfast and a hot mug of tea on his bedside table, along with a sticky note that says 'in your own time' in loopy handwriting, which he chuckles softly at before tucking in. It seems to trigger something in him and he finds himself scarfing down his food, and he's suddenly reminded that he hasn't eaten since yesterday afternoon, and even then it had only been a simple piece of toast. The breakfast seems to do the trick though and in minutes, he's full. With that, he leaves to have a shower and get dressed, exiting into the hallway with a towel over his shoulder to see the lounge is empty and morning sunlight's streaming through the windows, with the curtains having been parted off to their sides. It looks like Mrs. Hudson did a quick tidy up hours prior - the smashed cup and saucer have gone, the tea cleaned up and John glances into the kitchen to see the pieces of teacup have been swept up, while the dishes have been cleaned and put away.

With nothing else to do, John checks the fridge but finds it's stocked full of food and beverages for, he realises, the first time since he moved into this place. Same with the pantry. He walks back to the lounge and looks at the clock to see it hit 12:15pm. His eyes go wide. What time had he eventually crashed?

For a quick second, he thinks on going downstairs to speak to Mrs. Hudson about it, but then he remembers the note and slowly exhales. Right.

He goes back to the fridge and rummages for an apple, before heading out into the cool, morning air. Out of habit, he glances at Speedys and he feels the apple just about slip from his fingers.

Oh.

He'd completely forgotten.

Before he can think anymore on it, he finds himself stepping up and hailing a cab for Barts Hospital, tossing the apple in a nearby bin as he gets in.

/

For a long time, he'd promised himself he wouldn't go near this place, let alone step inside it. Even seeing the building on his way to work would be too much and he'd have to close his eyes until the cab had passed it.

But this is something else; an entirely different situation. This is seeing sombody new.

Almost an exception to the rules.

That is, if Stephen didn't look like the spitting image of the man who had jumped off of the very building he worked at all those months ago.

He just can't stay away if he tried.

John tries not to look too eager as he steps through the automatic doors, but a simple look at all the doctors and nurses bustling about isn't exactly helping him contain his excitement at running into him by accident, even if it is just to talk about missing their meet up.

He turns the corner where the lifts are, and manages to catch one right as the doors are about to close, if a kindly nurse hadn't been holding it open for him. He nods a thanks, then presses the button for Level 2 and leans against the rail, avoiding the questioning look she's giving him when she sees him trying (and failing) to hide a smile. As soon as it stops, he walks out and hurries it to the neurosurgery department, but when he recognises how he must look to passerbys, he slows his pace and lets himself take in just simply being back inside this building.

Not once has he felt weak at the knees or stricken by sudden panic. He clenches his left hand as a nurse brushes past him, but that's as bad as it's gotten. Who knows if it would have been the same story if he had come in here a month back - but he only knows it's the thought of seeing Stephen again that got him in in the first place. He hadn't even had the heart to visit Molly when she had been on break.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, then stuffs his hands in his pockets as he veers a left corner...and almost crashes head first into a doctor.

He stumbles back and..he would have fallen hard, if it weren't for the doctors quick reflexes; he's just able to catch his wrist and John looks up to see Stephen looking back at him, a white mask on his mouth and a clipboard in hand. His hair's sticking up everywhere, though John can see flecks of product that he hadn't had time to rub in that morning, and his eyes are an incredibly bright blue against the white hospital lights. He lets go of John to take his mask off and Johns stomach flips when he grins warmly at him, and his face lights up.

"John, hey! What're you doing here?"

John smiles. His face is already hot, "I - um - I wanted to apologise about not meeting you at Speedys yesterday. There was a - um - personal matter I had to take care of and…"

Stephen's frowning at him, but when he realises what John's going on about, he quickly smiles, "Oh, that! No, don't worry about that. I was performing a spinal fusion on a 60 year old woman." He says it so casually that it makes John laugh in surprise. And relief.

"Really?"

Stephen chuckles, "This job always has its perks."

Johns voice seems to falter. He doesn't know if he'll get over his laugh, "Yeah, seems like it." He clasps his hands behind his back as Stephen looks over his clipboard, and John lets his gaze roam his face as he's distracted.

Huh.

He's even prettier than he remembers.

Stephen seems to sense John staring, because he looks up from the board and right into Johns eyes.

John swears he feels breathless just looking at him and he even sees Stephens mind freeze in its tracks, his clipboard barely gripped in his hand. All the nurses and doctors breeze past them, but they go unnoticed by the two, who are suddenly lost in their own world for a few wonderful seconds.

There's a moment, a very quick moment, and John doesn't know if Stephen feels it too, where a surge of something passes between them. It's lightning fast, and John's almost able to keep a hold on it, but before he can really grasp it, it disappears.

Stephen suddenly breaks his gaze to laugh softly to himself, before looking back at John and….yes, that feeling returns.

In full force this time.

John has only felt this feeling twice before in his entire life; once with Major Sholto all those years ago in the army...and secondly with Sherlock in their very first meeting. And in every waking minute he spent with them, it never left.

He knows exactly what it is.

Johns mind is spinning and he suddenly has the need to sit down. Luckily Stephen catches on in the last minute and guides him to a chair, where John falls against the plastic as his legs give out beneath him. Without a moments hesitation, Stephen sits beside him and watches his face, silently checking him over. John's staring at the floor, trying to get a grip on himself, when Stephen carefully touches his shoulder and it takes everything within him not to look into his eyes again.

"Are you okay, John?"

John swallows, but his throat's gone dry, and he wipes a hand across his face to fight a coughing fit off. He nods, knowing that if he speaks, his voice will either give something away or he'll start choking on his own spit.

Stephen doesn't look away from him once and for the first time, it unsettles him. But, in a very odd way, he hopes he can stay with him for awhile longer.

"Do you want to stand?"

John shakes his head. He can manage that. Still can't speak though. Stephens voice is so gentle, exactly how he remembered it in their first meeting, and it makes Johns head hurt. He knows he's in doctor mode right now, caring for a patient (if you could call it that), but John can't stop thinking on the other day and how he'd responded upon knowing who Sherlock was. How kind and compassionate he had been, and he feels himself smile when he thinks on how working at a hospital, looking after the sick and dying, is pretty much the perfect job for him.

He doesn't realise he's laughing until he feels Stephens hand leave his shoulder and gently take his arm.

"Hey. John, you alright?"

Without thinking, John turns his head to Stephen to answer, and is immediately taken by his eyes again. His face is soft as he studies Johns composure and he has his own amused smile on his lips, and though he really is playing doctor at the moment, John sees the facade slip for a hot second and upon it is complete and utter falling,

Holy. Shit.

Johns heart is in his throat, but before he can open his mouth, a cheerful voice calls out to Stephen and he watches him turn away and stand as a familiar nurse comes walking up to them.

Molly.

Wait...Molly? What is she doing here?

"Stephen! There you are!"

Stephen grins as she takes his arm and she kisses his cheek.

"Molly, what're you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be tending to that patient." He sounds surprised. Could even say disappointed, but maybe that's just Johns brain still playing catch up.

She waves a hand, "Oh, Daniel's taking over. I'm on break." She giggles and moves closer to him, but Stephen doesn't dismiss her.

Why…?

Finally, Molly sees John and when she does, she lets go of Stephens arm in an instant, and Stephen almost looks...pleased?

John forgets that thought in a second.

He stands as she goes to him and she throws her hands out,

"John, you're...you're here! Gosh, you haven't stepped in here, since…"

John nods, "Since Sherlocks death, yes. It's good to see you, Molly."

He doesn't have time to react as he's pulled into a quick hug, "Oh, John, how're you?"

He glances at Stephen, but he only smiles back and John realises he's alone on this. His eyes dart to his left hand and he isn't surprised to see it's trembling hard. He clenches it before replying, "I'm...well, I'm getting better I guess." He forces a laugh, "What about you?"

Molly hesitates, "Oh, I'm...fine. Still a working girl." She giggles as her gaze lingers on Stephen and like that, it drops.

Oh…

Still, he just has to ask. He can't bloody stop himself.

"Um - I don't mean to be rude, Molly, but are - " He looks between them, "Are you two...dating?"

Mollys face is aglow and Stephen smiles and nods, but doesn't say anything. She folds her hands together and giggles again, "We met in the cafeteria."

John watches as Stephen touches her arm and bends down to kiss Mollys cheek. Though, he doesn't look away from him as he does it, like he's eyeing his reaction.

He wonders if Stephen can see him deflating from the inside out.

Chapter Management


	5. Chapter 5

John leaves the hospital minutes later.

His stomach is doing somersaults and he has no idea what to think on what he had just seen between Molly and Stephen. He's so focused on it that he almost walks into an elderly couple on the way out, and they give him ugly glances as they brisk past him, but he ignores it and calls down a cab, which he practically falls into before settling himself in the seat. He leans his head against the window to think.

 _Molly and Stephen are dating?_

Stephen has a...girlfriend?

And it's...Molly?

It's not as if Molly getting a boyfriend surprised him. No. After the Moriarty fiasco, he only would have been happy to see her going out with somebody else. But it's the fact that it's Stephen of all people who's somehow managed to find his way into her heart.

Molly definitely has a type, he's giving her that.

Also trust her to be dating someone who's basically a Sherlock clone with an american accent. John almost wants to double over laughing at the hilarity of it all. Maybe this is how grief manifested itself with her.

He hadn't even asked how long they had been together for; he had been too upset over how Stephen had behaved with her that he had had to excuse himself and he hadn't even had the time or even thought to make an excuse; he was still so thrown from how Stephen had looked at him moments before Molly had shown.

John sighs as he watches the world go by. Funny. He really had thought that Stephen felt the same way as he does. But of course he's only kidding himself. Trust him to have his heart broken all over again.

The cab turns down Baker Street, and John sits up as it stops outside his flat. As he reaches in his pocket for his wallet, his phone goes off and his heart picks up when he catches the caller id.

Tossing the money at the driver, he clambors out and is left standing outside the apartment block as the cab goes off. John glances again at the screen, but it's not a trick of the eyes, as much as he wants to believe.

He finally answers it after the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"John, it's Stephen. I got your number from Molly - hey, what happened? You just left without saying goodbye."

John hesitates, "Yeah - um - sorry, I..." He leans against the brick exterior as his brain struggles to make up a lie. "I had to go in to work."

"But you don't go back to the clinic until next Wednesday. They've given you sick leave until you're sure you're well enough to go back."

John legs give out and he collapses into the chair outside Speedys.

 _How the hell did he know that?_

As if reading his mind, Stephen quickly adds in, "Molly told me that."

 _He didn't tell her that, did he? No, he hadn't seen her for 7 months._

 _Unless…_

John clears his throat when he feels panic suddenly seize him, "Oh - uh - right, yeah."

"Listen, John, I wanted to re-schedule our meeting at...Speedys, was it? I was thinking you and I could meet somewhere else - Molly's mentioned Angelos before. Maybe we could double date, would that be alright with you if I bring her? It's just that she hasn't stopped talking about you and Sherlock since you ran out of here."

John closes his eyes at the impending knot in his stomach; he hadn't even realised that Stephen had instantly assumed he'd be dating someone. He forces his voice to lift, "Yes, that's - that's fine, Stephen."

"Really? Great. Is 6 alright with you? I should be off the clock by then."

John agrees to it and he goes to end the call - he can hear the blood pounding in his ears - but Stephen says his name and he moves to wander over to his front door. Please let this be quick.

Stephen sighs on the other line, and his voice is low as he talks, "John, I...I wanted to apologise about what happened earlier. Molly can be a bit...enthusiastic sometimes."

He frowns, "Oh - uh - no, that's...okay."

"You sure?" He sounds so concerned. "Because I can speak to her if -"

"It's fine."

Though it definitely is not fine, and for a moment, he seems to think Stephen's caught on to that. There's a pause on the other end, and he thinks he's left, but he sighs again and his voice is almost apologetic, like he truly is sorry for Mollys brief show of affection which...John has absolutely no problem with whatsoever.

"If you're sure..."

"Yes, Stephen, I'm sure."

A longer pause this time, "I gotta go. I'll see you at Angelos."

He's hung up before John can get a goodbye out, and after pocketing the phone, he turns to grasp the brass knocker...only to hear the familiar sound of tires crunching against gravel behind him. He resists the urge to roll his eyes and slowly turns back, not surprised in the slightest to see the tires belong to a freshly waxed and incredibly expensive black car.

Of course Mycroft has to show up now.

As per usual, Anthea provies him with no detail of where they're going or what Mycroft has in store for him this time. After his very first encounter with the older Holmes brother, he had had a feeling that this wouldn't be the last time something like this happened to him, and he'd been flawlessly correct. Though as ever the dramatic the Holmes' were and are, a piece of him still lives off the mysteriousness of it all and Mycroft seems to unsurprisingly still be aware of this.

John can't help but feel the tiniest bit disappointed when he sees they haven't stopped outside an unknown location, but the diogenes club where Mycrofts office resides. Without thinking, he visibly sags and he can hear Anthea laugh beside him - whether it's from whatever's on her Blackberry or Johns blatant okay-ness with where he's been driven, he doesn't know. And frankly doesn't care to stick around to find out.

The driver goes around to open the door for him and in a matter of seconds, John's seated across from Mycrofts chair, a plate of small cakes and pastries placed next to him on a porcelain white dish. A cup of tea, just the way he likes it, is in front of him, which he's only taken a single sip from. Though he absolutely loves these unexpected meetings, he wants this one to end as quickly as it had started; his head is still aching from his visit to the hospital.

Mycroft is at his chair with his hands steepled and his eyes are firmly closed. John could almost call this a Holmesian trademark. He has a manilla folder at his left arm, but hasn't touched it since John stepped in and there's no name on the front to indicate who it's for. The knot in his gut suddenly tightens when Mycrofts eyes snap open to land on him, and he remains silent as he begins surveying John, his gaze trailing up and down his body, then to his ever trembling hand, then finally to his face, where he only then draws back and unlinks his hands to take the folder.

John hasn't spoken to Mycroft since the funeral - he still holds some slight disgust towards him for his flippant behaviour then - but, he has to admit, he's still impressed that he's able to keep up the theatrics even now; getting his tea right had always only been the beginning of whatever news he's about to deliver and though John has grown quietly accustomed to this, he still steels himself when he sees the documents.

Mycroft passes it over and John begins flipping through as he speaks. His heart instantly plummets when he sees a black and white headshot of Stephen pinned to the front of what seems to be an entire pile of backstory on the man. Even in this small picture, he looks to be Sherlocks exact double, and he would have figured that if he didn't know he had an american accent.

Mycrofts hands press together again, and his voice is low but soft, "Dr. Stephen Strange. Earned his degree in America 2 years prior, and worked the odd job here and there before relocating to London just five weeks ago. But you already knew that..."

John knows Mycroft's waiting for a reaction - he can see his brow raised from the corner of his eye - but he merely clears his throat and Mycroft bristles at having to continue on. He nods to the file as John finds the page on his personal history.

"With the help of Molly Hooper, he was able to secure a job at Barts Hospital, working as a Neurosurgeon. Within just a week, Stephen and Molly began a romantic relationship."

He draws a sharp breath. On purpose. And he smiles sweetly at John. On purpose, "Now, I know I haven't... _courted_ anyone in my lifetime, but don't you think that's a little odd, Dr. Watson? Dating someone in that short amount of time upon meeting? You could even say it's...a little _strange_."

Johns eyes lift to him.

Mycroft's mouth is closed as he watches him intently and John realises he's still waiting for a reaction out of him. While he knows it's a bit odd, and his heart is breaking over it, it's not something he should be given a folder about nor told to in a very hush hush way. But that's Mycroft for you.

John fights down a laugh as he nods in agreement, just to get Mycrofts gaze off him, "Oh, yeah...yeah."

Mycroft glances at the folder but still keeps a steady gaze on John. He seems to be happy with Johns response, though he can never truly tell what Mycroft is thinking or feeling. Mycrofts sweet smile grows and his voice takes on feigned surprise, "He looks remarkably like Sherlock, doesn't he?"

That gets him.

John stares at Mycroft with his mouth slightly open. _How...did he...surely not…_

Mycroft's almost sneering at him now and John suddenly feels very exposed underneath his eye. With just the flick of a hand, he closes the folder and slides it back towards the older Holmes, wearing a silent smirk of his own as he regards his response.

Mycroft isn't taken aback at all. Like he had almost expected this.

He lays a thin hand on the cover, still keeping that curious tone, "Had enough, have we, John?"

John folds his arms, finally deciding to speak up, "You brought me here to see Stephens file. Why? Is he some russian spy here to get information on Sherlock? Is he one of your government goons dressed up to keep a close eye on me?" He leans forward, "You have to admit, Mycroft, it is prettystrange that Stephen just showed up out of thin air."

Mycrofts lips twitch in agitation, but he swallows it down and chooses to fire something right back at him, "As wonderful as it is to keep surveillance on you at all times, John, I think going as far as to have one of my employees pose as a respected Neurosurgeon would be quite the risk, don't you?"

John shrugs, "Not really."

Mycrofts eyes grow dark and for a fleeting second, John feels like he's crossed the line with the older Holmes, but then he smiles again and pushes back his chair to stand. He begins walking around him and John almost expects a trap door to open up below his feet. He's so used to Mycrofts behaviour, used to the banter and scrutinising, but he always seems to be kept on edge no matter how often he sees him, and he's just waiting for the day when Mycroft drops a bomb on him.

"I know I haven't been the most...shall we say, _accommodating_ big brother, and I'm well aware of our differences at the funeral, but…" He pauses to sit back in his chair again, "I would appreciate it if you would believe me when I say that I have nothing to do with this."

John frowns, and eyes him for almost a full minute.

Mycroft is always so difficult to read; like Sherlock, he is incredibly guarded with his emotions and is very protective of letting anything to do with feelings show. Must be another Holmes trait that John will probably never understand. He finally gives up when he realises Mycroft hasn't moved in the time he's been waiting for a crack in his mask to make itself apparent, and when Mycroft sees him lean back in his chair in defeat, he smirks.

He knows he's won this, whatever it is.

John shifts uncomfortably in his chair, "You're not lying, are you?"

Mycroft chuckles, "You don't take me for an honest man, do you, John-?"

"Then why show me his file?"

His body language changes in a snap and he interlocks his fingers on the desk, his gaze level with Johns. His voice is steady as he speaks, and he waits to make sure he has Johns entire attention before speaking, "Stephen Strange isn't a dangerous man. But I must agree with you that it is, for want of a better word, interesting that he takes such an intrigue in you. Don't take offence to that, John."

John frowns, "I won't."

He suddenly remembers why he hates these meetings so much. Because he never gets a straight answer from Mycroft, and there's really no point in trying to get one. He just has to play the game.

Mycroft pushes the folder towards him, but John only glances at it, "Read it."

"I have."

" _Thoroughly_ read it."

"Why? You said he isn't dangerous."

That sweet smile again. "It might do you some good to read something that isn't Sherlocks old magazines."

John quickly brushes his words off. He's getting better at it with every meeting, "What's in here that you haven't already told me?"

Mycroft goes strangely quiet as he looks away to open a drawer, and John feels his throat close up as he carefully lays Sherlocks scarf on the folders cover. He closes the drawer with a quiet 'thunk' and clasps his hands again, his gaze practically lasering in on Johns thoughts.

John stares at it, "W-How did you get that? I left it on his headstone."

Mycroft ignores him and presses his fingers on the fabric, sliding the folder forward, "You might want to consider going over this file, Dr. Watson."

John sits back in his chair, running a hand over his face and through his hair. He must be dreaming. He really, really must still be asleep at Baker Street. Either that or he's been drugged heavily from the tea. He feels like he's just been punched in the stomach and his mind is in sudden overdrive. All he can do is stare helplessly at Mycroft, but it's as if he doesn't register Johns current state, and he waves a hand as he pulls out his phone, giving John a sympathetic smile.

"Get some rest, John. You're going to need to be refreshed for your dinner with Stephen and Molly tonight."

John doesn't have it in him to fire a haughty response back; he can't.

He numbly watches Mycroft spin around so the chair's back is to him as he takes a call, and in moments, John's taken back out to the car by one of his officials, the scarf and folder gripped in his hands. Anthea doesn't glance at the items, nor says a thing about what happened in the office, and Johns eyes linger on the Blackberry in her fingers. He knows she's already telling him how he's taking the news.

His mind is still in a fog as he's dropped off at Baker Street, and he would have forgotten the folder if Anthea hadn't thrust it into his hands at the final second. The car speeds off down the street and John's left standing on the pavement in an utter daze.

He steps into the flat, gently closing the door behind him, and he waits for Mrs. Hudson to come out into the hallway to greet him, but he's only met with silence. His heart beat's loud in his ears as he climbs the stairs, and he makes his way to Sherlocks room, already winding the scarf around his neck. An instant calm washes over him when he feels the soft fabric against his throat and he falls onto the bed - it's been made, he realises, and the curtains have been pulled back, so light's streaming on the covers. His plate and cup have also gone from his night stand. Mrs. Hudson must have come in here when he'd been out.

He winds the scarf around his finger as he stares at the folder in his hand. For a long while, he considers going through it - Mycroft had said he isn't dangerous, but why had he been so insistent that John give this a second look? Had there been something he'd missed? Or was there actually some deep secret Stephen had been hiding from John this entire time?

It had been a little suspicious that he'd appeared in the cemetery, at Johns feet, and had behaved so warmly towards him when asking about Sherlock. And how he'd looked at him in the hospital...for all he knew, that could be a facade too...

John stares at the cover, his fingers hovering over the rubber band. He could do it. He could take it off right now and have read through the entire thing by 6.

But...does he want to?

Stephen isn't working for Mycroft. He had confirmed that. And nothing about him had screamed 'government official'. So..what is it then?

John glances down and his eyes stray on the scarf. Mycroft had given it to him when he had asked about what else could be in the folder that he hadn't already been told. But...why? What connection could the scarf have to Stephens files?

He takes it off and holds it in his palms, his mind working to figure this out with what little information he had to piece this together.

Stephen is linked to Sherlock.

But how…..?

John shakes his head. He's absolutely drained from last night - the last thing he needs is to be wondering on this. That's Mycrofts job. He stands and walks over to the bin, where he tosses the folder in and puts the scarf back around his neck, before heading to the kitchen to fix himself some tea.

If Stephen is a criminal mastermind, John doesn't want to know. He'd rather live in ignorance if it means having something good for the first time since the incident.

And besides, even if he is, that just means more danger.

And John wouldn't pass that up for anything.


	6. Chapter 6

He makes it to Angelos with 5 minutes to spare.

The place is packed, as it usually is, and there's a strong smell of basil pesto wafting through the air, with waiters wandering around holding customers dishes or stood by tables with notepads and pens in hand. The last time he came here had been exactly a week before Sherlock had jumped from Barts, and he can still remember exactly what they had ordered; John had forced Sherlock to order something, despite his protests of not being hungry, even though he hadn't eaten for 2 days straight, and Johns chicken had been undercooked. Instead of ordering another dish (which would have resulted in them waiting another 20 minutes), Sherlock had pushed his plate towards him and vehemently insisted that John take it. At first, he had thought he had only done it to get out of John being pushy, but when he had caught sight of Sherlock speaking to a waiter with his chicken dish in hand as they had been about to leave, he had quietly smiled to himself and felt a sudden warmth blooming in his chest.

John lets the memory sit in his mind and shifts over to let a waiter pass, who's holding a large pizza in both hands for a family of four, and he walks further inside, looking around as he tries to spot Stephen. A hand raises in a booth in the very back of the room and John grins when he sees Stephen and Molly waving him over, both of them smiling - neither of them have ordered, as they still have their menus closed in front of them, and there's a lit candle in the middle of the table, which makes Johns heart jolt when he's ripped back to another memory of Sherlock.

He shakes it off as he heads to the two and Molly stands to hug him, while Stephen simply beams at him. After John gets seated and they order their food, a low hum begins to settle around them, but it's broken when Stephen clears his throat.

"So, John…"

Johns nods as his eyes meet his, and it's then that he takes notice of his attire for the night - a black jacket over a white dress shirt and black pants; the exact same outfit Sherlock had worn on their first night here. His hair is still slicked back with those stray hairs pushed to the front, and his skin is milky white, but at first glance, it's like looking at a Sherlock mirror, which leaves John completely dumbfounded. Surely he hadn't done this intentionally?

Molly waves a hand in front of his face, "John?"

He's suddenly snapped out to hear Stephen laughing quietly at him, and his cheeks flush as he glances at her, "Mm?"

"You were staring at Stephen."

"Was I?" John frowns, ignoring the urge to push the candle over as a distraction from wanting the floor to swallow him whole, and Molly nods, her own cheeks dusted a pale pink. He pushes out a short laugh and lays a hand on the table, now directing his attention to Stephen, "Sorry, what were you saying?"

Stephen chuckles and shakes his head, "Erm, I was just wondering where your date is." He raises a brow, "I did suggest on the phone that we could double date."

Molly interjects, offering up a soft, "Wasn't she able to make it?"

John snorts as he feels his face flush, "No, uh - I don't...have a girlfriend."

At this, something seems to click in Stephens mind and he suddenly back peddles, "Oh...Sorry, John, I just...assumed - "

Johns mouth falls open.

 _Oh._

"Oh, no - Stephen - ha - no, I don't...I'm not…." His face is beet red now and he suddenly wants to leave the restaurant.

"I mean, it's totally fine if you are -"

"No…" He clears his throat and flashes a smile, "I know, but…I'm...no."

Molly exhales as her shoulders fall and she avoids eye contact with him, her own face changing to match his, but Stephen doesn't seem affected in the slightest, which...okay, definitely odd. John immediately thinks on the files again.

He folds his hands on the table and speaks as if they had simply been talking about the weather, "So, you're...single, then?"

Molly gives him a strange glance and John swallows. What the hell is going on? He looks at Molly, but she frowns back at him, her too having no clue what he's doing. John chokes out a laugh, and he breathes out a relieved sigh when he sees a waiter heading to their table with his hands full of their dishes, "Yes...and I have been for awhile…"

He doesn't look at Stephen as he says this, nor does he nod a thanks to the waiter as he drops off their food. But he can see Stephen still watching him from his peripheral vision, his fingers underneath his chin as his eyes study him. John feels a lump come into his throat - it's like being back in Mycrofts office, and his jumper seems to shrink in the heat of the place.

* * *

Neither men touch their orders.

Molly begins stabbing at her salad, and she's only able to get two forkfuls in before sensing the sudden tension between the two and she hastily sets down her cutlery to excuse herself for the bathroom.

John heart falls. God, what now? He begins picking at an old sticker on the edge of the table, trying to pretend Stephen isn't sat right across from him. But his presence is so demanding that it's almost impossible to ignore, and the mere fact that he looks exactly like Sherlock isn't helping. At all. He's torn in wanting to speak, but he knows he'll end up rambling, or staying silent and hoping Stephen will change the subject. Hell, maybe Molly will come back and start on a different topic entirely to ease the atmosphere down a notch.

He almost jumps when he sees Stephen unlink his hands and he grabs a dessert menu from the middle of the table, but his gaze stops on the candle and he's stilled in place, the paper poised in his hand. John steals his chance, finally feeling his face return to it's normal colour, and he opens his mouth to say the only thing that's on his mind right now,

"W-Why a candle?"

He smiles to settle his nerves, but it comes out a lot...flirtier than intended and he drops it, right as Stephen sees.

He rests his chin against his left hand and gives John, in what can only be described as, the warmest, loveliest smile he's ever seen and it leaves John utterly breathless,

"Oh, Angelo thought it would brighten up the room a bit."

He winks.

He _winks._

Johns stomach curdles. He's just about to make his leave, but the restroom door opens and Molly steps out. Now he really can't run out of here.

John doesn't think he's ever had a horrible night out in his life. Not since Sherlock died anyway. His gut is tangled up with anxiety and every look Stephen gives him during the evening has the urge to take off growing stronger, but he instead pushes his food around on his plate and ignores Mollys feeble attempts at striking up anything that isn't to do with Sherlock. It's either that or work, and all of them want to avoid that as much as possible.

He feels an impossible guilt fall on his shoulders at being so rude towards the two, but his words have fallen in his throat and he can't seem to make new ones no matter how hard he thinks. Though they're both caught up in their own conversation, something about Molly going to visit her parents overseas, Stephen can't help but glance over at John to gauge his reaction. John's lost in his own world, however; with the embarrassment from earlier, the mortification of Stephen visibly flirting with him, Mycrofts riddled meeting, and the folder of Stephen stuffed in his bin at home, all he wants is to dive straight into bed and pretend this whole day had never happened.

He's so far gone that he doesn't register Molly leaving the table to pay, until he feels Stephen touch his arm, and he draws it back underneath the table, his face suddenly burning. Stephen leans forward and his voice takes on a severely different tone than it had with Molly earlier. Almost...regretful.

"I'm...sorry about tonight, John."

John glances at his left hand. As usual, it's trembling. Great. He shakes his head and puts his other hand out, "No..no, Stephen, it wasn't - "

"I need to tell you something."

John stops, "Okay…"

Stephen hesitates and his eyes lower from Johns for a moment, as if seriously contemplating something in his mind. John watches him, and soon, Stephen drags his gaze back to his. He takes a breath to speak, but they're both interrupted by Molly, who taps Stephens shoulder, bringing them both back to the restaurant.

Without another word, the two stand and follow Molly out, and John sneaks a peak at Stephen, only to see him not looking at Molly at all. He's staring up at the stars, and John snorts in disbelief.

 _You have got to be kidding._

The facial features, the voice, the eyes, he mannerisms and posture, the candle, the suggestion of Angelos, the choice of outfit for tonight, and now he's gazing at the stars.

This guy is seriously selling it.

He licks his lips, frowning to himself. His brain is already playing this incredibly familiar scene back and he knows exactly what's coming next.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

John decides to follow along and glances at him as Molly too tilts her head to the sky, "What is?" She asks.

John watches in utter confusion as Stephen carefully sets his gaze on his, and while his lips mouth the words, "the stars," his eyes tell an entirely different story.

 _You._

John swallows. He suddenly wants to kiss him.

Stephen smiles wide when he sees the expression on Johns face and he turns away to walk ahead to Molly, chuckling under his breath. John watches as he takes Mollys hand in his and he feels his heart break all over again.

 _What is he doing?_

A cab pulls up to the curb as they get to the pavement and Stephen opens the door for Molly first, then motions for John to follow after. He glances at him, but gets in anyway, and as they pass, he swears Stephen touches his fingers at the final second.

He practically falls next to Molly and she stares in confusion, but he ignores it and stares out the window with his heart racing as Stephen climbs in the passenger seat. He gives the driver Johns address and John whips his head to stare at him.

 _Did his accent just...slip?_

When Stephen doesn't look his way, he sighs and decides to finally give in to the night, his chin cold against the window pane. Maybe he's overtired.

That's it.

He hasn't been in a good place for a very long time, and his breakdown from the other night had probably set him back a few weeks. It's a lot easier to tell himself than the truth.

He sets his jaw when his eyes fall on the back of Stephens head. He looks so collected, so well put together, as if he hadn't been toying with Johns emotions the entire night. Or since they'd met at the cemetery. God, that hurts to realise.

John scoffs. Now he understands why Stephen has been playing as Sherlock this whole time. It had been a sick joke. An incredibly cruel, twisted way to remind him that no matter how far he thinks he's gotten, he will always remain right back at square one.

Is Molly in on it too?

Hot tears sting his eyes and he shuffles closer to the window, but neither Stephen or Molly acknowledge him for a single second. As soon as the cab stops outside his flat, he flings open the door and slams it shut, tossing a few bills at the driver before storming inside. He doesn't wait for Mrs. Hudson to greet him and instead heads up to Sherlocks room, where the file on Stephen still sits untouched in the bin.

He snatches it up and goes into the kitchen for some tea and a couple pieces of toast, already flicking through the pages as the kettle boils.

At this point, he doesn't care what he finds.

Criminal mastermind or not, Stephen is a complete asshole and he smiles to himself when he realises that, for the first time in his life, he's on Mycrofts side.

In minutes, he brings a plate of toast and his cup of tea into the living room, where he lands in his chair with the document on his knees. The clock on the wall ticks to 9pm and he settles into the cushion, his fingers already itching to get through this folder.

It's going to be a long night.


	7. Chapter 7

John catches a cab to Mycrofts office the very next morning.

He's completely livid. It hadn't taken him very long to go through the file - not because his theory on Stephen being a criminal had been right, or that Mycroft had turned out to be lying to him and he really was working underneath the governments eye - neither of those had even come close to being correct.

Why?

Because aside from the two pages John had glanced at yesterday, and the basic information Mycroft had told him, the entire document had been filled with pages of crisp white paper. Initially, John had thought he'd been played for an utter fool - he had even gone to the length of holding them up to the light; maybe someone had written on them in invisible ink. But no. They were just blank pages - nothing more, nothing less. As soon as he had realised that, he had thrown it in the trash, and had retired to Sherlocks bedroom, where he slept soundly on for the remainder of the night. Though, come morning, when he had made up his mind about seeing Mycroft on this, he had fished it out and had grabbed his jacket before heading to the door.

Now he's in a cab, on the way to the Diogenes Club, the supposed file on Stephen thrown carelessly onto the seat beside him.

Because Mycroft keeps the flat bugged, he had expected a car to show up right as he had woken that afternoon, but of course Mycroft had probably predicted his reaction and hadn't bothered to send his own taxi service so John had had to take it upon himself to get his own way there. The cab driver glances at him every so often, but otherwise stays quiet and John clenches his hands together as he stares out the window, already making up in his head exactly what he's going to say to Mycroft. But his anger's making it a bit difficult to do so and all he can really come up with is how furious he is with the older Holmes brother. While he wants to understand why Mycroft would do this, he knows he can never argue with a Holmes as much as he tries - just when you think you've figured them out, they turn around and completely blindside you with something else. Really, John gave up trying to figure Sherlock out years ago and had simply accepted him, so why did he have trouble doing so with his brother?

John sighs when he feels the cab slow to a stop. Before he can open the door, the driver glances at him in his rearview mirror,

"You sure I got the right address, lad?"

There's not a soul in sight, and the front doors are shut as well as the curtains, though there are a couple of windows open on the second story. The only sign of life is the garden that runs around the building, where different types of plants are flowers are thriving in the warm sun. To any passerby, it'd seem abandoned, but to John, who's been here plenty of times in the past, he knows it just means Mycroft's too busy to care for such small things as fresh air.

John smiles and grabs the folder. He's already stepping out,

"Yes, thank you."

The driver shrugs as John gives him the right cash, then steps back as he peels off onto the main road. Once he's gone, John takes a breath and opens the door, already heading straight for Mycrofts office. He bursts in to find him with his phone pressed to his ear, one leg over the other, and when he sees John, he gives a small smile and nods for him to sit down, but otherwise doesn't look his way again and carries on speaking as if John isn't even there. John slowly lowers himself on the chair and only now sees the hot cup of tea on the desk, as well as a helping of chocolate lamingtons on a small white plate beside it, and John almost laughs aloud at the realisation that Mycroft had known he was coming in. When Mycroft doesn't move to end his call, John tosses the folder to him so it comes to a halt at his elbow, causing him to look up and frown in surprise.

Without saying anything else into the reciever, he snaps it shut and puts the phone away, folding his hands together as John clears his throat.

"I read the file like you told me to."

Mycroft studies him, "And?"

John smiles, "It's blank." His voice grows more impatient with every word and the smile slowly slips from his mouth as he carries on, "Every. Single. Page. Is blank. Well, except for the first two. You know, the ones with basic information on him? What, did you run out of ink for the other 16?"

Mycroft puts a hand on the cover and pulls it towards him, but doesn't take his eyes away from Johns as he links his hands again, "You're not wearing Sherlocks scarf."

As always when under Mycrofts gaze, he feels instantly laid bare. He reaches a hand up to find that he's right, and he sighs, "No."

"May I ask why?"

John blinks, "I - I don't know, maybe I forgot it - look, what does that have to do with this?" He motions to the folder, but Mycroft pays no attention to it at all.

Instead he smiles and leans slightly forward, "How was dinner? Had an interesting night, did we?"

Johns brows knit together. _What is he on about?_ "...Dinner? It - it was fine, I guess."

"Mm. Stephen seems quite... _taken_ with you, doesn't he?"

Johns cheeks go hot, but he doesn't reply and hurriedly leans forward to grab the cup. He begins to slowly sip it as Mycrofts gaze flickers across his face, and his fingers press harder together,

 _"Well?,"_ he says briskly.

John just about chokes on his tea, "Well what?"

In a blink, Mycrofts body relaxes and he smiles again, waving a hand to the folder, "He has a girlfriend." His voice is slick, like he's taunting him, "Doesn't that make you upset? Or are you enjoying the attention, Dr. Watson?"

John doesn't realise his hands are shaking until he sets the cup back onto its saucer. He leans back in his chair as a jolt of anxiety rips through him. He knows Mycroft is watching his every move, but it still greatly unnerves him when he brings it to light, especially in instances like these where he would much rather prefer them be kept to himself. He swallows. He almost wants to lie to Mycroft, but he knows there would be no point whatsoever to even try, "I - I don't know." When he sees Mycroft raise an eyebrow, he quickly throws in, "It's not fair to Molly."

Mycroft laughs for a moment, as if he finds the whole situation amusing, "No, it isn't, is it?" He sucks in a breath, "Tell me. Why do you think Stephen is doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Behaving like Sherlock. Is it a cruel joke or a sick fantasy come to life?"

"I don't know."

John clenches and unclenches his hand. Mycrofts gaze is even but there's something more behind it, which stays hidden as he carefully watches John take all this in. After a moment, he finally draws away and reaches down for the folder, which seems to spark something within Johns mind. He had almost forgotten about it.

His lips are pulled in a thin line, "You don't really think I would have my men be so careless to print a blank document, do you, John?"

John nods to it, "It had crossed my mind."

Mycroft frowns. To Johns surprise, he tosses it back on to the desk and folds his fingers under his chin, "Let me say this so even you understand." He pauses as John sets his jaw. "Stephen Strange doesn't exist."

"So then who did I meet at the cemetery?"

Mycrofts brow raises. He's being strangely cool about this...but then he sees the flicker of hot anger in Johns gaze and he smirks to himself, deciding to throw his words back,

"I don't know."

"Why didn't you tell me that yesterday?"

Mycrofts smirk doesn't waver, "You know how I work, John."

John smiles wryly, "So you think I'm an idiot, is that it?"

"No. I _know_ you're an idiot." Johns hand curls into a fist, "I wouldn't do that if I were you. You know what I'm capable of."

Johns grip tightens on the arm rest as he fights down the urge to punch him hard in the face, and instead sits in his anger, letting Mycroft have the upper hand - as he usually does regardless. Mycroft gets up from his chair and clasps his hands behind his back as he picks up the folder again.

"Dr. Strange doesn't exist," he repeats. "He never earned a doctorate in America, nor is he a Neurosurgeon. In fact, he's not even from the United States."  
Johns throat feels tight, "He's not?"

Mycroft shakes his head, "He's English."

He slips easily back into his seat and meets Johns eyes again, but it's like John's frozen in place. His head is reeling, so much so that he can't even enjoy the satisfaction of knowing Mycrofts men royally screwed up.

Mycroft either doesn't see this or ignores it entirely as he puts his hands together again and continues on. John forces himself to listen, but he's already finding it difficult to not fall head first onto the desk, "Like I said before, he's become very attached to you. We don't believe he has an ulterior motive to this, but since we have no background check on who this man is then…." He suddenly stops, and his voice lowers, "Has it ever occured to you, Dr. Watson, that perhaps Molly Hooper is not aware of this?"

John frowns for a moment as he processes Mycrofts words, but then it all dawns on him and he stands to head to the door. He doesn't even wait to see if Mycroft will call him back, but the older Holmes does nothing to halter Johns reaction, and instead picks up the folder once more to toss it in a nearby bin, smiling smugly as he takes his phone from his pocket to make another call.

* * *

A cab is already waiting for him outside the building.

John gets in, and is about to tell him the address, but the driver turns out before he can even open his mouth. His stomach is churning the entire ride there and as soon as it stops, he practically leaps out and hands over a few bills, racing inside like his life depends on it. Thankfully, there's no one in the lift and he leans against the railing as he presses the M button, momentarily closing his eyes to take a breather.

He almost collapses in relief when he sees Molly is stood by a sheet covered body, holding a clipboard as she checks him over. It's then that she looks up and as soon as she sees him, she frowns in surprise.

"John, what're you doing here?"

John's heart is racing as he approaches her, "Molly, I need to tell you something."

She smiles, but it's hesitant and she lowers the clipboard to her chest, "What?"

His eyes linger on the dead body, and the anxiety slowly creeps back into his chest, "Stephen Strange doesn't exist."

Her smile falls, "W-What?"

"I was just in a meeting with Mycroft. He told me that there's no one named Stephen Strange in their database."

She shakes her head, "John, what're you talking about?" He doesn't reply, and she lays the clipboard on a nearby table, "Who have I been going out with?"

John pauses. He glances at the lift to see if anybody's coming, but when he realises they're alone, he gently leads her away from the body and runs a hand through his hair, trying to steele himself for what he's about to tell her. With everything that Mycroft's shared with him, and with how Stephen has behaved this past week, he's pretty sure he understands it now, but even so, actually saying it aloud is another thing entirely and a small part of him is still heavily in doubt.

But he needs to get it out. Say it now.

John sighs, "Molly, I...I think Sherlock's alive."

In the past, this would have sounded crazy. Molly would have shaken her head and told him to stop doing this to himself, and that he should start seeing his therapist again. And John would have stalked off to go back to Baker Street, where he would curl under the covers of Sherlocks bed and not be seen for days on end. Mrs. Hudson would worry, would leave food outside his door, but he wouldn't open it even at the smallest knock and it would continue on in a neverending loop.

Now, the words have an entirely different meaning in the context it's given, and both of them seem to know that.

Mollys eyes widen, "But..But he's dead, we - you saw him.."

Tears well in Johns eyes. He's so _frustrated_ with himself. "I know, I…" He shakes his head and takes a breath, "...He's been playing with us this whole time."

At that moment, the lift dings and the doors slide open to reveal Stephen in his robes and gloves. He takes the mask away from his mouth, smiling wide when he sees the two, and rips his gloves off to dispose of them in a small bin by a window. Molly quickly grabs her clipboard and pretends to be doing her work, but John clenches his fists as he walks up to him.

"Thought you'd stop off for a quick visit, did you, John?"

John grits his teeth and raises a fist to punch him in the jaw - Molly yells out behind him and drops her clipboard to race over to them both. Stephen stares up John, his eyes wild, but John's already going in for another hit, until Molly takes his arm and pulls him away. John's breathing hard, and his entire body is trembling with anger, but he doesn't shake off Mollys hand and instead stares Stephen down, who's slowly rising to his feet with his fingers trailing his cheek. There's already a pink mark forming.

Stephens leans against a table, his palm flat on the surface as he looks at him in bewilderment, "John?"

John snatches him arm from Molly, and points a finger at him, "You're a real asshole, you know that?" Tears spill onto his cheeks before he can stop them, and he can feel Molly's close behind him incase he lashes out again. But he isn't going to. Not while she's there.

Stephen glances from her to John and he shakes his head slightly, "I'm sorry?"

John wipes his eyes, "Yeah, you should be." He laughs, but it's cold and Molly watches as he takes a couple steps forward. She reaches out, but he waves a hand back and she stays put, readying herself for whatever he's about to do. He can feel more tears push through, but he ignores them as his voice drops to a whisper, "Do you have any idea how much pain you put me through?"

At this, Stephen suddenly straightens and he takes the mask off to throw in the bin, his eyes finding Johns. But John can't even look at him anymore; he's so overcome with resentment and disgust at what he's had to endure this week, from the breakdowns that "Stephen" has no idea about to him dressing up and flirting with him while Molly was in the toilets. All of it leaves a horrible taste in Johns mouth and he starts breathing hard again as the anxiety swarms him.

Stephen swallows, "John, I'm so sorry -"

"Leave it." He's feeling light headed. Dizzy, almost. He stumbles back and Molly just manages to catch him, before his knees give out and he falls to the floor. Stephen runs forward and he leans over him as Molly carefully lays him on the floor before rushing off to get a blanket to rest his head on.

John's vision begins to swim, but he's still able to feel Stephen cupping his cheek so he can look at him and his chest tightens when he sees his lips are trembling and his face is paler than usual. What had he done? What had they both done?

His hand raises to hold Stephens, but he blacks out completely before he can even curl his fingers around his.

"You're going to be alright…"

 _…..Sherlock?_


	8. Chapter 8

**It's done! : ) I really hope you liked this story, guys. I had so much fun writing it**

 **It's pretty dialogue heavy. Bit of a heads up.**

* * *

John wakes to a damp cloth on his forehead.

He still feels slightly light headed, but it's not as bad as it had been prior, though he can feel a headache coming on and he winces when the knot in his neck suddenly tightens. He sighs, and tries to ignore it as he looks around; he's been moved to a private ward, with a large window off to his right, where sunlight's pouring in and dancing on the bed covers. With a start, he realises he's wearing a gown; hospital procedure, he figures, but he still has his clothes on.

Hm.

He glances beside him, to see Sherlock asleep -

 _Wait._

 _Sherlock…?_

John stares. And stares. And _stares._

His hair is still full of product, he notices, and hasn't been touched at all. And the red mark on his face is still visible. But...he isn't wearing surgeons robes anymore. No.

He's wearing a deep purple dress shirt, a black jacket, black pants, and black dress shoes.

 _And._

His Belstaf coat, with his signature blue scarf tied around his neck.

 _The same scarf John had been wearing in all those months._

John blinks. Surely, he still must be asleep. But he can't be. The last thing he remembers is Stephen holding his cheek as he blacked out. But...there never had been any Stephen...right? Mycroft had said -

His thoughts are cut off when Sherlock - _yes, Sherlock_ \- stirs awake. He stretches his arms out in front of him, and yawns loudly before slowly opening his eyes, and they immediately fall on John.

John doesn't think anyone has ever looked at him like this before.

Sherlocks face is so soft and full of relief, as is his voice when he speaks to him, "You're awake."

John smiles, "What happened?"

"You had an anxiety attack," a new voice says. Both mens heads turn to see Molly at the door, a deep blue jumper in hand. She steps more into the room but still keeps a hand on the door, "How do you feel?"

"Still light headed, but it's not as bad. I have a bit of a headache though."

"Do you want me to get you something?"

He nods, "Thanks."

She smiles brightly then disappears and John listens to her retreating footsteps, before looking back at Sherlock, who's still wearing that same expression. John drops his gaze to his hands that are idly picking at the blanket, and he doesn't raise his eyes until Molly comes back with a couple of tablets and a glass of water. She leaves again after telling them she has to go back to work, but not before Sherlock gives her a quick kiss on the cheek and whispers a thank you for her help. John watches the door close, his brow furrowed in confusion.

 _So...that means..._

"Yes," Sherlock says, as if reading his mind. John looks at him again, and his eyes are full of remorse, "So was Mycroft."

John sighs and lays his head back on the pillow, "Of course." He folds his hands together. It all made sense now - why Mycroft had given him that file and why he had somehow been in posession of Sherlocks scarf. "So Stephen Strange…"

"Isn't a real person." He exhales, "He's from a comic book. Looks a hell of a lot like me."

John snickers and sits up, reaching up to take the cloth from his forehead. He leans over to place it on his bedside table and grabs the glass of water, "How long did it take you to find the right disguise?"

"Not that long. I managed to track down one of younger clients, a teenage boy who had acquired a collection of comics over the years. Luckily he had just bought the latest Dr. Strange comic and was only pleased to hear that I would need to borrow it for some time while I got my costume in order. American accent was a little tricky though. Still needs some work if you ask me."

John laughs again. Sherlock frowns and looks around the ward, his nose wrinkling, "They don't have very good decorators, do they, hospitals?"

"Well, it _is_ a hospital, Sherlock, I don't think having the colour of the blinds match the wallpaper is their biggest priority." He pops both the pills in his mouth and chases them down with the water.

Sherlock smiles as he looks back at him, "It should be."

"You could apply to be their interior decorators. You already pretended to be a Neurosurgeon for 5 weeks."

"Yes, and I won't be doing that again. Do you know how difficult it is to perform a brain hemorrhage with only a sufficient amount of textbook knowledge?"

John puts the glass back on the table, "I think performing a hemorrhage on someone is hard enough on its own."

They smile at eachother for a moment, and John feels a sudden surge of... _something_ course through him. Sherlock drops his gaze and begins fiddling with his hands, his voice thick with regret,

"John, I...I'm sorry. For everything that I've done this week." He meets his eyes, "I had no idea how deeply I hurt you. And if I had known, I would have stopped, I swear."

John doesn't need to search his face to know he's telling the truth. He lets go of the blanket to put a hand through his hair, "It's okay. I'm sure you had a good reason."

"Of course," he says firmly, "I had to see you again, John."

John grins to himself, "And you thought dressing up as some superhero would get my attention?"

"It worked, didn't it?"

Again, something passes between them for a moment as they look at one another, but it doesn't last for long.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, "I'm sure you want to know how I faked my death - "

"No."

His brows furrow, "No?"

"I want to know why."

"Oh. I had to dismantle Moriartys network."

Johns glances at the scarf around his neck, "And did you?"

Sherlock chuckles, "I'm not even close. I only got to the U.S before finding out about the idea for Dr. Strange."

"So you decided to come back here and -"

"Yes." He pauses. "Funny how sentiment works," he finishes quietly. John licks his lips, considering this for a moment. Huh. "He had a beard, you know."

"Hm?"

Sherlock puts his fingers to his chin, "Stephen Strange. He had a beard. I would have grown one out, but I didn't have the time."

John laughs, "Pity. You would have looked good with a beard."

His cheeks instantly redden when he realises what he's said, but Sherlock only glances at him. He's too focused on picturing himself with the characters facial hair. John clears his throat, drawing Sherlocks attention back to him, "So...when do you think I'll be discharged from here?"

"Oh," he waves a hand. "You can leave whenever you like."

John raises a brow, "Oh, did you talk to the doctors?"

"Molly did. They made an acception because you're a friend."

"They can do that?"

Sherlock drops his hands back on his lap, "Apparently, yes." He hesitates, "About me and Molly - "

John smiles, "I'm fine with it, Sherlock, really. I'm happy you found someone - "

"Oh, we're not...together, John. That was just part of the act." He frowns, "She was in on it, remember?"

"Oh!" Johns cheeks flare up again, "Oh, right, I just - I just thought that, well - since…"

"Since what?"

John purses his lips, "That, _well_ , you and Molly had been pretending to date and I - I thought that she liked you," he finishes lamely.

Sherlock stares at him blankly, "Does she?"

"I think so."

"Hm. Well, I'll have to talk to her about that some time." John looks away and Sherlock sees, "John?"

"Hm?"

"Are you alright?"

John eyes his coat, ignoring the sudden weight on his chest, "You got your coat back."

Sherlocks momentarily distracted as he picks at the lapel, "I found it in the back of your closet. Did you put it there?"

John swallows. He can't tell if Sherlock's angry or not, "It hurt too much."

"The coat? How would it, it's only..." It instantly sinks in and he lets go of the fabric to pick at his fingers again, "Oh…"

There's a beat, until Sherlock smiles halfheartedly and gestures to the scarf, "You kept this though."

"Yeah, it helped...to get through you not being there…" Johns voice trails off and he feels a lump in his throat. He can't look Sherlock in the eye. There's just too much sadness in the blue.

A silence grows in the room, until Sherlock lays a hand his arm. John lifts his gaze up to see him looking back, and his voice is soft again, "I will never leave you again, John. I promise."

His gaze is so sincere and it has Johns chest tighten with emotion, "But don't you need to dismantle Moriartys network?"

He shakes his head, "I can get someone else to do it." He smiles and his hand moves down to cover his, "You're more important."

John swallows. He struggles to speak again, to ask something that's been on his mind for hours, "At the restaurant - when you were… _flirting_...with me. Was that - " He narrows his eyes, "Were you _really_ \- doing that or was that for show too?"

Sherlock chuckles and the sound reverberates through Johns body, "You must have thought I was a terrible boyfriend." He laughs when he sees Johs mouth fall open,

"You utter - What if I had told Molly?"

Sherlock waves a hand as his laughter subsides, "Oh, she wouldn't have minded. Although, if she does have some affections for me as you say she does, she probably wouldn't want to _officially_ date me after this was all over." He chuckles again and John joins in. The unspoken tension's passed, and John is strangely thankful.

But they still haven't moved their hands.

There's another ripple of silence, but it's a comfortable one, and John licks his lips when he sees their hands. He takes a glance at Sherlock, who's adjusting his scarf, and slowly slips his fingers between his while keeping his eyes on him.

Nothing.

John smiles as he gently squeezes their hands together, and that...somehow manages to register with him. Sherlock looks from them to Johns face, but doesn't say a word and simple squeezes back.

"Mrs. Hudson didn't sell my violin, did she?"

John snickers, "Not yet."

"Good."

"She has been sitting in your chair though," he teases.

Sherlock shrugs, "As long as my cigarettes haven't been touched, then she's forgiven."

"You didn't get to smoke on your trip around the world?"

"Never had a chance. It's a tiring thing, having an arch-enemy."

John smirks, "Yeah, it's too bad you can't smoke in here."

Sherlock meets his eyes as he nods to the door, "Could I smoke outside? Or is there some.. _policy_ against that too?"

John can't help it. He laughs hard and his shoulders shake, "No, go ahead. They're pretty chilled out with that rule."

"Good." He pauses as he takes his hand off his, "You don't mind, do you?"

John gestures a hand to the door, "Go. You've probably been dying for a smoke since you got here."

"You're right, I have."

He stands, but is clearly hesitant to leave. John smiles.

"Go, Sherlock. I'll still be here, I promise."

Sherlock nods and takes a couple steps forward, but just before he gets to the door, he whirls back around and heads back to John, and John's stunned into silence when Sherlock suddenly takes his chin to kiss him gently on the mouth. John closes his eyes and places both his hands on Sherlocks shoulders, one of Sherlocks hands moving to his cheek while his other fiddles with his scarf. He draws back to hand it over, and he grins when he sees Johns face is flushed.

"Thanks."

He waits for John to wind it around his neck before kissing him again, and it's deeper this time. When they part, they're both smiling like idiots.

Sherlocks eyes meet his, "Keep it. It suits you."

"What about you?"

He grabs his coat lapel again, "I've got this, remember?"

John stifles a laugh as he watches Sherlock leave, but not before winking at the door, "I'll see you soon." When it shuts, John settles into the mattress. _Now_ everything makes sense. He sighs. He can't imagine what Mrs. Hudsons reaction is going to be when she sees him.

Molly returns a few minutes later to check on him, a pitcher of water in hand, and she's surprised to find Sherlocks gone. She sits in his seat, topping the glass up as she speaks, "Did Sherlock leave then?"

"No, he's gone outside to have a cigarette."

John blushes when he hears his voice has gone husky, and he clears his throat as Molly looks at him curiously. But when he sees her smile, he knows she understands, and she puts the pitcher beside the glass. He's expecting her to start on it, but she's quiet instead as she looks around the room.

John decides to begin the conversation, "How long have you known?"

"What?" She looks back at him, "Oh, I helped Sherlock fake his death."

"That's...pretty impressive, Molly."

She smiles, "He doesn't like me, you know."

"Sorry?"

"Sherlock. He doesn't like me in that way. We only dated to keep up the charade, and to make you jealous - I…" She goes a pale red. "I mean - I didn't…"

John grins, "It's okay. He told me." _Okay, that makes a lot more sense._

Molly sighs in relief, "How's your head?"

"It's getting better."

She reaches for the cloth, "Did you want me to soak this again?"

"No, I'm alright."

He watches her play with it in her hands. She really doesn't know what to say. John picks at the blanket again, until she stands from the chair, "Where did you say Sherlock was again?"

He motions to the door, "He should be right outside."

"Thanks."

He lays his head against the pillow as she moves out the room and he begins to close his eyes. He hasn't felt this comfortable in so long, and he swears he can almost sink into the mattress; he doesn't feel light headed anymore, and his headache is just about gone thanks to the ibruprofen Molly had given him…

He's just drifting off when the door creaks open again, and Sherlock comes through into the room. He smells strongly of cigarette smoke, but John can tell he's tried to hide it with a breath mint. As he comes closer, he realises he can also detect a hint of strawberry body spray - Molly must have leant it to him when she had found him.

Before John can voice a hello, or a cheeky quip, Sherlock kisses him lightly on the forehead and produces a small brown teddy bear from behind his back as he sits beside him on the chair. John laughs as he brings it to eye level to read it's tummy, and he blushes when he sees it say "I Love You" in thin blue cotton.

"What, they didn't have 'Get Well Soon?"

Sherlock smirks, "Unfortunately, they weren't having a sale."

He kisses him on the lips this time, and John captures his bottom lip between his teeth right as he goes to move away. Sherlock opens his eyes to look at him, and Johns heart leaps when he sees they're brighter than usual. He goes to kiss him again, but Sherlock draws back at the last second to sit back down, and his face is completely lit up, his mouth pulled in a lopsided grin. John twines their hands together as he searches his mind for anything he might have forgotten.

"Do you have anymore questions?

John chuckles, "You know you're reading my mind, right?"

Sherlock raises their hands to his lips and lightly kisses Johns knuckles, "Am I?"

"Shut up." He pauses, "Actually, I do have one more question."

"Ask away."

"Did you talk to Mycroft about this?"

Sherlock lowers their hands back onto the blanket, "He called me in for a little _chat_ after he saw my behaviour at the restaurant. He was worried you would catch on quicker than we had planned."

John snorts, "He's lucky I'm an idiot, then."

"Yes, I still need to talk to him about that."

"You're not going to cause a scene, are you?"

Sherlock grins, "Would that make me a bad boyfriend?"

"It would make you a stupid one."

He kisses John for a final time and lets go of his hand to cup his cheek, his voice low, "Just for the record, John, I was never embarrassed when people assumed we were together. I thought that by me not saying anything, it would encourage them more."

John giggles, "Well, they won't need to assume anymore, will they?"

"No. And good thing too. I was tired of dancing around this."

John pulls him in for a hug, breathing in the faux strawberry spray on his coat, and Sherlock rests his head on his shoulder, his hand on the middle of his back, "Have you been sleeping in my bed since my death?"

John hesitates, "Would that be good or bad?"

"Depends how you look at it. I had been planning to ask you to move into my room when I came back, but you can stay in your single bed if you would prefer."

John hugs him tighter, "Yes, I have." He lets go to kiss his cheek, "And I'll take you up on your offer. Starting tonight," he adds with a wink.

Sherlock grins.

In the cab ride on the way home, John falls asleep on Sherlocks shoulder with their hands clasped together. Sherlock kisses his hair, complete elation floating through his body, and he gazes out the window. When they pass a security camera, Sherlock carefully holds their hands up with a wide smirk and mouths the word "Happy?" before it disappears from view.

From his security room, Mycroft smiles to himself as he takes a large bite of lamington. While Sherlock could be an idiot sometimes, he really had to hand it to his little brother for finally coming to his senses. He really thought he had been pushing it the other night, but of course, he had rightly underestimated Sherlocks knowledge of John Watson.

He wipes a piece of coconut from his mouth and turns to his assistant, who's eyes are kept on her Blackberry, "Anthea?" She looks at him, but he doesn't stray from the security footage, "Cut off all surveillance in 221b Baker Street."

"Are you sure, sir?"

He smirks, "Positive."

"For how long?" She pockets her phone.

He watches as the cab stops outside the flat, and Sherlock pass over some money to the driver, before the door opens and Mrs. Hudson steps out to hug the pair.

"Indefinitely."


End file.
